Yes, I Can Understand That

God Is The Poet; Men Are But The Actors. The Great Dramas Of Earth Were Written In Heaven.

Foppery, Being The Chronic Condition Of Women, Is Not So Much Noticed As It Is When It Breaks Out On The Person Of The Male Bird.

Science Is The Language Of The Temporal World; Love Is That Of The Spiritual World. Man, Indeed, Describes More Than He Explains; While The Angelic Spirit Sees And Understands. Science Saddens Man; Love Enraptures The Angel; Science Is Still Seeking; Love Has Found.

[raphael's] Great Superiority Is Due To The Instinctive Sense Which, In Him, Seems To Desire To Shatter Form. Form Is, In His Figures, What It Is In Ourselves, An Interpreter For The Communication Of Ideas And Sensations, An Exhaustless Source Of Poetic Inspiration. Every Figure Is A World In Itself, A Portrait Of Which The Original Appeared In A Sublime Vision, In A Flood Of Light, Pointed To By An Inward Voice, Laid Bare By A Divine Finger Which Showed What The Sources Of Expression Had Been In The Whole Past Life Of The Subject.

He's Got His Dog Trained So That It Only Does It On Newspapers. The Trouble Is It Does It When He's Reading The Blasted Things.