I Know Nothing More Mocking Than A

Art Is A Mediator Of The Unspeakable.

Every Step Of Life Shows Much Caution Is Required.

A Vi'let On The Meadow Grew, That No One Saw, That No One Knew, It Was A Modest Flower. A Shepherdess Pass'd By That Way-- Light Footed, Pretty And So Gay; That Way She Came, Softly Warbling Forth Her Lay.

Each Has His Own Happiness In His Hands, As The Artist Handles The Rude Clay He Seeks To Reshape It Into A Figure; Yet It Is The Same With This Art As With All Others: Only The Capacity For It Is Innate; The Art Itself Must Be Learned And Painstakingly Practiced.

At The End Of Life Thoughts Hitherto Impossible Come To The Collected Mind, Like Good Spirits Which Let Themselves Down From The Shining Heights Of The Past.