Speak But One Word To Me.

Don't Think Too Much Of Style.

What Is An Artist But A Workman Who Is Determined That, Whatever Else Happens, His Work Shall Be Excellent?

O Thrush, Your Song Is Passing Sweet, But Never A Song That You Have Sung Is Half So Sweet As Thrushes Sang When My Dear Love And I Were Young.

The Wind Is Not Helpless For Any Man's Need, Nor Falleth The Rain But For Thistle And Weed.

...if Our Houses, Or Clothes, Our Household Furniture And Utensils Are Not Works Of Art, They Are Either Wretched Makeshifts, Or, What Is Worse, Degrading Shams Of Better Things.