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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=409671" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Artist. (Sonnet I.)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=409671" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Nothing the greatest artist can conceive<br>That every marble block doth not confine<br>Within itself; and only its design<br>The hand that follows intellect can achieve.<br>The ill I flee, the good that I believe,<br>In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine,<br>Thus hidden lie; and so that death be mine<br>Art, of desired success, doth me bereave.<br>Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face,<br>Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain,<br>Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny,<br>If in thy heart both death and love find place<br>At the same time, and if my humble brain,<br>Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Henry+Wadsworth+Longfellow">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</a></strong></div>

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