There Is An Angel Imprisoned In It

An Artist Does His Most Difficult Work When He Steps Back From The Blank Canvas And Thinks About What He Is Going To Create.

An Artist Must Have His Measuring Tools Not In The Hand, But In The Eye.

Do Not Fret, For God Did Not Create Us To Abandon Us.

With Few Words I Shall Make Thee Understand My Soul.

Led By Long Years To My Last Hours, Too Late, O World, I Know Your Joys For What They Are. You Promise A Peace Which Is Not Yours To Give And The Repose That Dies Before It Is Born. The Years Of Fear And Shame To Which Heaven Now Set A Term, Renew Nothing In Me But The Old Sweet Error In Which, Living Overlong A Man Kills His Soul With No Gain To His Body. I Say And I Know Having Put It To The Proof, That He Has The Better Part In Heaven Whose Death Falls Nearest His Birth.