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We should comport ourselves with the masterpieces of art as with
exalted personages -- stand quietly before them and wait until they speak
to us.
Arthur Schopenhauer

XIV



Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;

And yet methinks I have astronomy,

But not to tell of good or evil luck,

Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons\' quality;

Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,

Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,

Or say with princes if it shall go well

By oft predict that I in heaven find:

But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,

And constant stars in them I read such art

As \'Truth and beauty shall together thrive,

If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert\'; 

  Or else of thee this I prognosticate:

  \'Thy end is truth\'s and beauty\'s doom and date.\'



XV



When I consider every thing that grows

Holds in perfection but a little moment,

That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows

Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;

When I perceive that men as plants increase,

Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky,

Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,

And wear their brave state out of memory;

Then the conceit of this inconstant stay

Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,

Where wasteful Time debateth with decay

To change your day of youth to sullied night,

  And all in war with Time for love of you,

  As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

 	--William Shakespeare

It\'s strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for
words.
T. S. Eliot

XLII



That thou hast her it is not all my grief,

And yet it may be said I loved her dearly;

That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,

A loss in love that touches me more nearly. 

Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye:

Thou dost love her, because thou know\'st I love her;

And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,

Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.

If I lose thee, my loss is my love\'s gain,

And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;

Both find each other, and I lose both twain,

And both for my sake lay on me this cross:

  But here\'s the joy; my friend and I are one;

  Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.

 	--William Shakespeare