Who so loves believes the impossible.

Don't get me wrong-painting's all right. But now that we have photography, what's the point?

With what cracked pitchers go we to deep wells In this world!

But so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware.

The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and pinks, held out in the smoke, like stars by day.

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.

Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.