If it be true that any beautiful thing raises the pure and just desire of man from earth to God, the eternal fount of all, such I believe my love.
The idea is there locked inside. All you have to do is remove the excess stone.
I feast on wine and bread, and feasts they are.
One paints with one's head, not one's hand.
Carving is easy, you just go down to the skin and stop.
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.