Weep, For The Light Is Dead.

No Doubt The Artist Is The Child Of His Time; But Woe To Him If He Is Also Its Disciple, Or Even Its Favorite.

There Is Room In The Smallest Cottage For A Happy Loving Pair.

Life Is Earnest, Art Is Gay.

Each State Of The Human Mind Has Some Parable In The Physical Creation By Which It Is Shadowed Forth; Nor Is It Only Artists And Poets, But Even The Most Abstract Thinkers That Have Drawn From This Source. Lively Activity We Name Fire; Time Is A Stream That Rolls On, Sweeping All Before It; Eternity Is A Circle; A Mystery Is Hid In Midnight Gloom, And Truth Dwells In The Sun. Nay, I Begin To Believe That Even The Future Destiny Of The Human Race Is Prefigured In The Dark Oracular Utterances Of Bodily Creation.

Ever Building, Building To The Clouds, Still Building Higher, And Never Reflecting That The Poor Narrow Basis Cannot Sustain The Giddy Tottering Column.