A man paints with his brains and not with his hands.
A beautiful thing never gives so much pain as does failing to hear and see it.
Dear to me is sleep: still more, being made of stone, While pain and guilt still linger here below, Blindness and numbness--these please me alone; Then do not wake me, keep your voices low.
From such a gentle thing, from such a fountain of all delight, my every pain is born.
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