In A Work Of Art,

It Is Not Merely The Multiplicity Of Tints, The Gladness Of Tone, Or The Balminess Of The Air Which Delight In The Spring; It Is The Still Consecrated Spirit Of Hope, The Prophecy Of Happy Days Yet To Come; The Endless Variety Of Nature, With Presentiments Of Eternal Flowers Which Never Shall Fade, And Sympathy With The Blessedness Of The Ever-developing World.

There Is But One Temple In The World, And That Is The Body Of Man. Nothing Is Holier Than This High Form. Bending Before Men Is A Reverence Done To This Revelation In The Flesh. We Touch Heaven When We Lay Our Hand On A Human Body.

Nothing Is More Indispensable To True Religiosity Than A Mediator That Links Us With Divinity.

Many Books Are Longer Than They Seem. They Have Indeed No End. The Boredom That They Cause Is Truly Absolute And Infinite.

Friendship, Love, And Piety Ought To Be Handled With A Sort Of Mysterious Secrecy; They Ought To Be Spoken Of Only In The Rare Moments Of Perfect Confidence, To Be Mutually Understood In Silence. Many Things Are Too Delicate To Be Thought; Many More, To Be Spoken.