I Was Never The Kind

Love Lent Me Wings; My Path Was Like A Stair; A Lamp Unto My Feet, That Sun Was Given; And Death Was Safety And Great Joy To Find; But Dying Now, I Shall Not Climb To Heaven.

If It Be True That Any Beautiful Thing Raises The Pure And Just Desire Of Man From Earth To God, The Eternal Fount Of All, Such I Believe My Love.

Dear To Me Is Sleep: Still More, Being Made Of Stone, While Pain And Guilt Still Linger Here Below, Blindness And Numbness--these Please Me Alone; Then Do Not Wake Me, Keep Your Voices Low.

What One Has Most To Work And Struggle For In Painting Is To Do The Work With A Great Amount Of Labour And Sweat In Such A Way That It May Afterward Appear, However Much It Was Laboured Upon, To Have Been Done Almost Quickly And Almost Without Any Labour, And Very Easily, Although It Was Not.

How Wrong Are Those Simpletons, Of Whom The World Is Full, Who Look More At... Color Than At The Figures Which Show Spirit And Movement.