““I see myself––an angel!––and I die; the window may be art or mysticism, yet I long for rebirth in the former sky where Beauty blooms, my dream being my coronet! But, alas, our low World is suzerain! even in this retreat it can be too loathsome––till the foul vomit of the Inane drives me to stop my nose before the blue. O Self familiar with these bitter things, can the glass outraged by that monster be shattered? can I flee with my featherless wings–– and risk falling through all eternity?””
