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hungry heart of a mother, to clean it, to clothe it fifty times over in new garments which it tears & casts away,- & yet not revolt against the trials of this agitated life, but to bring out of them the living masterpiece which speaks to every eye in sculpture, to every intellect in literature, to the memory of all in painting, to the hearts of all in music - this is execution & its toils. ...... This habit of creation, this unwearying  maternal love, this motherhood ..... cultural motherhood, though so difficult to attain, is lost with fatal facility. Inspiration is the opportunity of genius. Never does it fly low; it is in the air, it darts away with the timidity of a bird, no scarf floats from its shoulders to the poet's grasp, [[strikethrough]] its [[/strikethrough]] . . . . the hunter's despair - The toil of art is therefore a relentless struggle, which great natures fear yet court, often as they are conquered in it -