Who Has Passed By The Fates Of

Is There A More Pitiable Spectacle Than That Of A Wife Contending With Others For That Charm In Her Husband's Sight Which No Philters And No Prayers Can Renew When Once It Has Fled Forever? Women Are So Unwise. Love Is Like A Bird's Song Beautiful And Eloquent When Heard In Forest Freedom, Harsh And Worthless In Repetition When Sung From Behind Prison Bars. You Cannot Secure Love By Vigilance, By Environment, By Captivity. What Use Is It To Keep The Person Of A Man Beside You If His Soul Be Truant From You?

For What Is The Gift Of The Poet And The Artist Except To See The Sights Which Others Cannot See And To Hear The Sounds That Others Cannot Hear?

Music Is Not A Science Any More Than Poetry Is. It Is A Sublime Instinct, Like Genius Of All Kinds.

The Fire Of True Enthusiasm Is Like The Fires Of Baku, Which No Water Can Ever Quench, And Which Burn Steadily On From Night To Day, And Year To Year, Because Their Well-spring Is Eternal.

There Is No More Terrible Woe Upon Earth Than The Woe Of The Stricken Brain, Which Remembers The Days Of Its Strength, The Living Light Of Its Reason, The Sunrise Of Its Proud Intelligence, And Knows That These Have Passed Away Like A Tale That Is Told.