But there burns a truer light of God in them.

Lucrezia, I am judged." Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?
All is silver-grey Placid and perfect with my art:--the worse "Here," he says, "is a piece of Rafael.

The arm is out of drawing, and I could make it right.

But the passion, the soul of the thing is not in me.

Had you, my love, but urged me upward, to glory and God, I might have been uncontent; I might have done it for you.