Art is to look at not to criticize.

The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet . . . yet the fool has never read Shakespeare.

Imperceptibly the love of these discords grew upon me as my love of music grew stronger.

I heed not that my earthly lot Hath - little of Earth in it - That years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute: - I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you sorrow for my fate Who am a passer by.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.

You call it hope-that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire.