True Art Is Made Noble And Religious

I Feast On Wine And Bread, And Feasts They Are.

Trifles Make Perfection, And Perfection Is No Trifle.

As When, O Lady Mine, With Chiselled Touch, The Stone Unhewn And Cold, Becomes A Living Mould, The More The Marble Wastes, The More The Statue Grows.

Can't You See The Angel Imprisoned In The Block Of Stone Trying To Get Out? I Am Trying To Free Him

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