Love Is A Beautiful Image

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.

Poets And Painters Have The Power To Dare, I Mean To Dare To Do Whatever They May Approve Of.

Even If You Are Divine, You Don't Disdain Male Consorts.

And Who Is So Barbarous As Not To Understand That The Foot Of A Man Is Nobler Than His Shoe, And His Skin Nobler Than That Of The Sheep With Which He Is Clothed.

The Greatest Risk To Man Is Not That He Aims To High And Misses, But That He Aims To Low And Hits.