In your patience ye are strong.
Don't get me wrong-painting's all right. But now that we have photography, what's the point?
The man, most man, works best for men: and, if most man indeed, he gets his manhood plainest from his soul.
Who so loves believes the impossible.
My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.
Think, in mounting higher, the angels would press on us, and aspire to drop some golden orb of perfect song into our deep, dear silence.