There Is An Angel Imprisoned In It

There Is No Tongue To Speak His Eulogy; Too Brightly Burned His Splendour For Our Eyes: Far Easier To Condemn His Injurers, Than For The Tongue To Reach His Smallest Worth. He To The Realms Of Sinfulness Came Down, To Teach Mankind; Ascending Then To God, Heaven Unbarred To Him Her Lofty Gates, To Whom His Country Hers Refused To Ope. Ungrateful Land, To Its Own Injury Nurse Of His Fate! Well Too Does This Instruct, That Greatest Ills Fall To The Perfectest. And 'midst A Thousand Proofs, Let This Suffice, That, As His Exile Had No Parallel, So Never Was There Man More Great Than He.

Love Lent Me Wings; My Path Was Like A Stair; A Lamp Unto My Feet, That Sun Was Given; And Death Was Safety And Great Joy To Find; But Dying Now, I Shall Not Climb To Heaven.

The Art Of Creation Lies In The Gift Of Perceiving The Particular And Generalizing It, Thus Creating The Particular Again. It Is Therefore A Powerful Transforming Force And A Generator Of Creative Solutions In Relation To A Given Problem.

I Dare Affirm That Any Artist... Who Has Nothing Singular, Eccentric, Or At Least Reputed To Be So, In His Person, Will Never Become A Superior Talent.

Many Believe - And I Believe - That I Have Been Designated For This Work By God. In Spite Of My Old Age, I Do Not Want To Give It Up; I Work Out Of Love For God And I Put All My Hope In Him.