I Am My Own Heaven

O Tender Yearning, Sweet Hoping! The Golden Time Of First Love! The Eye Sees The Open Heaven, The Heart Is Intoxicated With Bliss; O That The Beautiful Time Of Young Love Could Remain Green Forever.

Man Is Made Of Ordinary Things, And Habit Is His Nurse.

Ah, To That Far Distant Strand Bridge There Was Not To Convey, Not A Bark Was Near At Hand, Yet True Love Soon Found The Way.

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.

Man Is Created Free, And Is Free, Even Though Born In Chains.