What We Love Once, We Love Forever.

Music Is Not A Science Any More Than Poetry Is. It Is A Sublime Instinct, Like Genius Of All Kinds.

What Is Failure Except Feebleness? And What Is It To Miss One's Mark Except To Aim Widely And Weakly?

Take Hope From The Heart Of Man, And You Make Him A Beast Of Prey.

There Is No More Terrible Woe Upon Earth Than The Woe Of The Stricken Brain, Which Remembers The Days Of Its Strength, The Living Light Of Its Reason, The Sunrise Of Its Proud Intelligence, And Knows That These Have Passed Away Like A Tale That Is Told.

Genius Cannot Escape The Taint Of Its Time More Than A Child The Influence Of Its Begetting.