The Temple Of Art Is Built In

The Soul, Like The Body, Lives By What It Feeds On.

The Moment That Law Is Destroyed, Liberty Is Lost, And Men, Left Free To Enter Upon The Domains Of Each Other, Destroy Each Other's Rights, And Invade The Field Of Each Other's Liberty.

Ah! Soul Of Mine! Ah! Soul Of Mine! Thy Sluggish Senses Are But Bars That Stand Between Thee And The Stars, And Shut Thee From The World Divine.

The Temple Of Art Is Built Of Words. Painting And Sculpture And Music Are But The Blazon Of Its Windows, Borrowing All Their Significance From The Light, And Suggestive Only Of The Temple's Uses.

Artists Are Nearest God. Into Their Souls He Breathes His Life, And From Their Hands It Comes In Fair, Articulate Forms To Bless The World.