He Who Sees The Infinite In All

How Have You Left The Ancient Love That Bards Of Old Enjoyed In You! The Languid Strings Do Scarcely Move! The Sound Is Forced, The Notes Are Few!

Without Contraries There Is No Progression.

Where Lambs Have Nibbled, Silent Moves The Feet Of Angels Bright; Unseen They Pour Blessing, And Joy Without Ceasing, On Each Bud And Blossom, And Each Sleeping Bosom.

To My Eye Rubens' Colouring Is Most Contemptible. His Shadows Are A Filthy Brown Somewhat The Colour Of Excrement.

The Errors Of A Wise Man Make Your Rule Rather Than The Perfections Of A Fool.