“Either there is a God, and that God is perfect truth and loveliness, or else all poetry and art is but an unsown, unplanted, rootless flower crowning a somewhat symmetrical heap of stones. The man who sees no beauty in its petals, finds no perfume in its breath may well accord it the parentage of the stones. The man whose heart swells in looking at it will be ready to think it has roots that reach below them.”
