The Sunshine Fails, The Shadows

The Nimble Lie Is Like The Second-hand Upon A Clock; We See It Fly; While The Hour-hand Of Truth Seems To Stand Still, And Yet It Moves Unseen, And Wins, At Last, For The Clock Will Not Strike Till It Has Reached The Goal.

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting, And Our Hearts, Though Stout And Brave, Still, Like Muffled Drums, Are Beating Funeral Marches To The Grave.

A Town That Boasts Inhabitants Like Me Can Have No Lack Of Good Society.

No Endeavour Is In Vain; Its Reward Is In The Doing.

Sculpture Is More Divine, And More Like Nature, That Fashions All Her Works In High Relief, And That Is Sculpture. This Vast Ball, The Earth, Was Moulded Out Of Clay, And Baked In Fire; Men, Women, And All Animals That Breathe Are Statues, And Not Paintings.