Carving Is Easy, You Just Go Down

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

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.

Lord, Grant That I May Always Desire More Than I Can Accomplish.

No One Has Mastery, Before He Is At The End, Of His Art And His Life.

If In My Youth I Had Realized That The Sustaining Splendour Of Beauty Of With Which I Was In Love Would One Day Flood Back Into My Heart, There To Ignite A Flame That Would Torture Me Without End, How Gladly Would I Have Put Out The Light In My Eyes.