The greatest foe to art is luxury, art cannot live in its atmosphere.
Love is enough: though the world be a-waning, And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining.
The reward of labour is life. Is that not enough?
If we feel the least degradation in being amorous, or merry or hungry, or sleepy, we are so far bad animals & miserable men.
When Socialism comes, it may be in such a form that we won't like it.
It is the childlike part of us that produces works of the imagination. When we were children time passed so slow with us that we seemed to have time for everything.