No One Has Mastery, Before He Is

Dear To Me Is Sleep: Still More, Being Made Of Stone, While Pain And Guilt Still Linger Here Below, Blindness And Numbness--these Please Me Alone; Then Do Not Wake Me, Keep Your Voices Low.

If I Am More Alive Because Love Burns And Chars Me, As A Fire, Given Wood Or Wind, Feels New Elation, It's That He Who Lays Me Low Is My Salvation, And Invigorates The More, The More He Scars Me.

The Idea Is There Locked Inside. All You Have To Do Is Remove The Excess Stone.

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.

Good Painting Is Nothing Else But A Copy Of The Perfections Of God And A Reminder Of His Painting. Finally, Good Painting Is A Music And A Melody Which Intellect Only Can Appreciate, And With Great Difficulty.