Critique By Creating.

There Is No Tongue To Speak His Eulogy; Too Brightly Burned His Splendour For Our Eyes: Far Easier To Condemn His Injurers, Than For The Tongue To Reach His Smallest Worth. He To The Realms Of Sinfulness Came Down, To Teach Mankind; Ascending Then To God, Heaven Unbarred To Him Her Lofty Gates, To Whom His Country Hers Refused To Ope. Ungrateful Land, To Its Own Injury Nurse Of His Fate! Well Too Does This Instruct, That Greatest Ills Fall To The Perfectest. And 'midst A Thousand Proofs, Let This Suffice, That, As His Exile Had No Parallel, So Never Was There Man More Great Than He.

Love Lent Me Wings; My Path Was Like A Stair; A Lamp Unto My Feet, That Sun Was Given; And Death Was Safety And Great Joy To Find; But Dying Now, I Shall Not Climb To Heaven.

Art Is The Gift Of God, And Must Be Used Unto His Glory. That In Art Is Highest Which Aims At This.

I Give My Soul To God, My Body To The Earth, And My Worldly Possessions To My Nearest Of Kin, Charging Them To Remember The Sufferings Of Jesus Christ.

If I Love In Thee, Beloved, Only What Thou Lovest Most, Do Not Be Angry; For So One Spirit Is Enamoured Of Another.