Sculpture Is More Than Painting. It Is

Love Gives Itself; It Is Not Bought.

Ah, Nothing Is Too Late, Till The Tired Heart Shall Cease To Palpitate.

Doubtless Criticism Was Originally Benignant, Pointing Out The Beauties Of A Work Rather That Its Defects. The Passions Of Men Have Made It Malignant, As A Bad Heart Of Procreates Turned The Bed, The Symbol Of Repose, Into An Instrument Of Torture.

How Beautiful Is The Rain! After The Dust And The Heat, In The Broad And Fiery Street, In The Narrow Lane, How Beautiful Is The Rain!

All Your Strength Is In Union, All Your Danger Is In Discord.