When God Desires To Destroy A Thing,

We Are Given Up To Those Gods, Those Monsters, Those Giants, — Our Thoughts.

Try As You Will, You Cannot Annihilate That Eternal Relic Of The Human Heart, Love.

Not Seeing People Allows You To Think Of Them As Perfect In All Kinds Of Ways.

Life Is A Theatre Set In Which There Are But Few Practicable Entrances.

The Eye Of A Man Should Be Still More Reverent Before The Rising Of A Young Maiden Than Before The Rising Of A Star. The Possibility Of Touch Should Increase Respect. The Down Of The Peach, The Dust Of The Plum, The Radiated Crystal Of Snow, The Butterfly’s Wing Powdered With Feathers, Are Gross Things Beside That Chastity That Does Not Even Know It Is Chaste. The Young Maiden Is Only The Glimmer Of A Dream And Is Not Yet Statue. Her Alcove Is Hidden In The Shadows Of The Ideal. The Indiscreet Touch Of The Eye Desecrates This Dim Penumbra. Here, To Gaze, Is To Profane.