What Thou Lovest Well Remains.

What Thou Lov'st Well Is Thy True Heritage.

The Eyes Of This Dead Lady Speak To Me For Here Was Love, Was Not To Be Drowned Out. And Here Desire, Not To Be Kissed Away. The Eyes Of This Dead Lady Speak To Me.

The Only Thing One Can Give An Artist Is Leisure In Which To Work. To Give An Artist Leisure Is Actually To Take Part In His Creation.

The Primary Pigment Of Poetry Is The Image.

What Counts Is The Cultural Level