A Beautiful Thing Never Gives

As When, O Lady Mine, With Chiselled Touch, The Stone Unhewn And Cold, Becomes A Living Mould, The More The Marble Wastes, The More The Statue Grows.

A Good Sculpture Can Be Rolled Downhill Without Breaking.

Perchance That I Might Learn What Pity Is, That I Might Laugh At Erring Men No More.

The More The Marble Wastes, The More The Statue Grows.

Lord Free Me Of Myself, So I Can Please You!