“What is art but the life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?”

“Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive,Half wishing they were dead to save the shame.The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow;They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats,And flare up bodily, wings and all. What then?Who's sorry for a gnat... or a girl?”

“And trade is art, and art's philosophy,In Paris.”

“Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink and breathe,—but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of being, passionately and joyfully.”

“Love me sweet With all thou art Feeling, thinking, seeing; Love me in the Lightest part, Love me in full Being.”

“The face of all the world is changed, I think,Since first I heard the footsteps of they soulMove still, oh, still, beside me...”

“O Life,How oft we throw it off and think, — 'Enough,Enough of life in so much! — here's a causeFor rupture; — herein we must break with Life,Or be ourselves unworthy; here we are wronged,Maimed, spoiled for aspiration: farewell Life!'— And so, as froward babes, we hide our eyesAnd think all ended. — Then, Life calls to usIn some transformed, apocryphal, new voice,Above us, or below us, or around . .Perhaps we name it Nature's voice, or Love's,Tricking ourselves, because we are more ashamedTo own our compensations than our griefs:Still, Life's voice! — still, we make our peace with Life.”