The Mind Is Not, I Know, A

Our Capacities, Our Instincts For This Our Present Sphere Are But Half Developed. Let Us Be Completely Natural; Before We Trouble Ourselves With The Supernatural.

Artists Are Always Young.

Who Can Ever Be Alone For A Moment In Italy? Every Stone Has A Voice, Every Grain Of Dust Seems Instinct With Spirit From The Past, Every Step Recalls Some Line, Some Legend Of Long-neglected Lore.

Those Have Not Lived Who Have Not Seen Rome.

Tremble Not Before The Free Man, But Before The Slave Who Has Chains To Break.