Poor little Foal of an oppressed race! I love the languid patience of thy face.

When a man mistakes his thoughts for persons and things, he is mad.

If a man could pass through Paradise in a dream, and have a flower presented to him as a pledge that his soul had really been there, and if he found that flower in his hand when he awake - Aye, what then?

A savage place! As holy and enchanted/As e'er beneath the waning moon was haunted/By woman wailing for her Demon Lover!

He prayeth best who loveth best.

So will I build my altar in the fields, And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be, And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields Shall be the incense I will yield to thee.

The artist must imitate that which is within the thing, that which is active through form and figure, and discourses to us by symbols.