The Mind Is The Eyesight Of The

The Voice Of Our Age Seems By No Means Favorable To Art, At All Events To That Kind Of Art To Which My Inquiry Is Directed. The Course Of Events Has Given A Direction To The Genius Of The Time That Threatens To Remove It Continually Further From The Ideal Of Art. For Art Has To Leave Reality, It Has To Raise Itself Bodily Above Necessity And Neediness; For Art Is The Daughter Of Freedom, And It Requires Its Prescriptions And Rules To Be Furnished By The Necessity Of Spirits And Not By That Of Matter.

Gray Hairs Are Death's Blossoms.

An Honest Man You May Form Of Windle-straws, But To Make A Rogue You Must Have Grist.

Foster The Beautiful, And Every Hour Thou Tallest New Flowers To Birth.

It Is Play And Only Play That Makes Man Complete.