I Am No Artist - Please Come

Art Lives On Constraint And Dies Of Freedom.

The Idea Is There Locked Inside. All You Have To Do Is Remove The Excess Stone.

True Art Is Made Noble And Religious By The Mind Producing It.

Led By Long Years To My Last Hours, Too Late, O World, I Know Your Joys For What They Are. You Promise A Peace Which Is Not Yours To Give And The Repose That Dies Before It Is Born. The Years Of Fear And Shame To Which Heaven Now Set A Term, Renew Nothing In Me But The Old Sweet Error In Which, Living Overlong A Man Kills His Soul With No Gain To His Body. I Say And I Know Having Put It To The Proof, That He Has The Better Part In Heaven Whose Death Falls Nearest His Birth.

Read The Heart And Not The Letter For The Pen Cannot Draw Near The Good Intent.