Realism was the death of art

..art lies in the fine choice. The artist does not teach us to see facts: he teaches us to feel harmonies.

Great art should come from the harmony of two lines.

Painting, which is essentially a rhythmic harmony of coloured spaces.

But see! the pains begin to fly; Tho’ Venus bled she could not die: See the new phœnix point her eyes, And lovelier from her ashes rise.

Brighter from her disease she shines, As fire the precious gold refines. Thus when the silent grave becomes Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs; When the wide seas and spacious earth Resign us to our second birth;

'Tis the night—the night Of the grave's delight, And the warlocks are at their play! Ye think that without, The wild winds shout, But no, it is they—it is they!