You can’t, if you can’t feel it, if it never Rises from the soul, and sways The heart of every single hearer, With deepest power, in simple ways. You’ll sit forever, gluing things together, Cooking up a stew from other’s scraps, Blowing on a miserable fire, Made from your heap of dying ash. Let apes and children praise your art, If their admiration’s to your taste, But you’ll never speak from heart to heart, Unless it rises up from your heart’s space.

Those that are firm in their will mold the world to themselves.

With little art, clear wit and sense Suggest their own delivery.

Classicism is health, romanticisim is sickness.

Life is but a preparation for what there is to come.

Create, artist, do not talk.

All is born of water; all is sustained by water.