In Every Artist There Is A Touch

The People Who Are Absent Are The Ideal; Those Who Are Present Seem To Be Quite Commonplace.

Alas! Sorrow From Happiness Is Oft Evolved.

The Bed Of Flowers Loosens Amain, The Beauteous Snowdrops Droop O'er The Plain. The Crocus Opens Its Glowing Bud, Like Emeralds Others, Others, Like Blood. With Saucy Gesture Primroses Flare, And Roguish Violets, Hidden With Care; And Whatsoever There Stirs And Strives, The Spring's Contented, If Works And Thrives.

I Reverence The Individual Who Understands Distinctly What He Wishes; Who Unweariedly Advances, Who Knows The Means Conducive To His Object, And Can Seize And Use Them.

Everyone Only Hears What He Understands.