Only at last have I awakened to realities, and the shadows flee away.

The worshipper of the Image is dead within me.

But alas! that little Wonder had to die first--" "I used to tell myself," he went on, "that human life, however exquisite, without art to eternalise it, was like a rose showering its petals upon the ground.

For so brief a space the rose stood perfect, then fell in a ruin of perfume.

Wonderful moments had human life, but without art were they not like pearls falling into a gulf?
So I said: there is nothing real but art.