I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I am one who could have forgotten the plague, listening to Boccaccio's stories; and I am not ashamed of it.

I cannot speak In happy tones; the tear drops on my cheek Show I am sad;
But I can speak Of grace to suffer with submission meek,
Until made glad.
I cannot feel
That all is well, when dark'ning clouds conceal
The shining sun;
But then I know
God lives and loves; and say, since it is so, "Thy will be done."

What is art but the life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?