Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting.

No Tears Dim The Sweet Look That Nature Wears.

What Shall I Say To You? What Can I Say Better Than Silence Is?

Softly The Evening Came /with The Sunset/.

Something The Heart Must Have To Cherish, Must Love And Joy And Sorrow Learn; Something With Passion Clasp, Or Perish And In Itself To Ashes Burn.

The Tragic Element In Poetry Is Like Saturn In Alchemy, — The Malevolent, The Destroyer Of Nature ; But Without It No True Aurum Potabile, Or Elixir Of Life, Can Be Made.