For his heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every Art.

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.

The counterfeit and counterpart of nature are reproduced in art.

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions

The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart, The secret anniversaries of the heart... -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.