And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.

The strength of criticism lies in the weakness of the thing criticized.

O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones, who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried!

Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.

I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.

Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.

We are all architects of faith, ever living in these walls of time.