"The Artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails"
The Ghost, a silent wanderer, To Sun unknown,
Beyond the bonds of time and space, Lives on its own,
The Quiet evening sends beasts to slumber, And Now once more,
The Ghosts's in search for Sunny shades,But Sun is Gone.
Galaktion Tabidze
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
William Shakespeare
