The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.

Like black hulks the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass.

All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.

The prayer of Ajax was for light.

Fair words gladden so many a heart.

Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.

I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. Those only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a steady lambent light, are luminous, but not sparkling.