Time Consecrates; And What Is Gray With

Love Can Sun The Realms Of Night.

The Voice Of Our Age Seems By No Means Favorable To Art, At All Events To That Kind Of Art To Which My Inquiry Is Directed. The Course Of Events Has Given A Direction To The Genius Of The Time That Threatens To Remove It Continually Further From The Ideal Of Art. For Art Has To Leave Reality, It Has To Raise Itself Bodily Above Necessity And Neediness; For Art Is The Daughter Of Freedom, And It Requires Its Prescriptions And Rules To Be Furnished By The Necessity Of Spirits And Not By That Of Matter.

Day's Lustrous Eyes Grow Heavy In Sweet Death.

Great Souls Endure In Silence.

In The Society, Where People Are Just Parts In A Larger Machine, Individuals Are Unable To Develop Fully.