What was any art but an effort to make a…

What was any art but an effort to make a sheath, a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining, elusive element which is life itself — life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose?

Sourced, The Song of the Lark
(1915)

Part IV, Ch. 3. Sometimes paraphrased: What was any art but a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself — life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.

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