As when, O lady mine, With chiselled touch, The stone unhewn and cold, Becomes a living mould, The more the marble wastes, The more the statue grows.

Why do You Send Fools To judge My Work?

One paints with one's head, not one's hand.

The greatest risk to man is not that he aims to high and misses, but that he aims to low and hits.

In every block of marble I see a statue as plain as though it stood before me, shaped and perfect in attitude and action. I have only to hew away the rough walls that imprison the lovely apparition to reveal it to the other eyes as mine see it.

The power of one fair face makes my love sublime, for it has weaned my heart from low desires.

Dear to me is sleep: still more, being made of stone, While pain and guilt still linger here below, Blindness and numbness--these please me alone; Then do not wake me, keep your voices low.