True Art Is Made Noble And Religious

Perchance That I Might Learn What Pity Is, That I Might Laugh At Erring Men No More.

If I Am More Alive Because Love Burns And Chars Me, As A Fire, Given Wood Or Wind, Feels New Elation, It's That He Who Lays Me Low Is My Salvation, And Invigorates The More, The More He Scars Me.

Dear To Me Is Sleep: Still More, Being Made Of Stone, While Pain And Guilt Still Linger Here Below, Blindness And Numbness--these Please Me Alone; Then Do Not Wake Me, Keep Your Voices Low.

The Hand That Follows Intellect Can Achieve.

There Is An Angel Imprisoned In It And I Must Set It Free.