I love thee, as the good love heaven.
What shall I say to you? What can I say Better than silence is?
Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.
The soul...is audible, not visible.
Mercy more becomes a magistrate than the vindictive wrath which men call justice.
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!