Death have we hated, knowing not what it meant; Life we have loved, through green leaf and through sere, Though still the less we knew of its intent.

The wind is not helpless for any man's need, Nor falleth the rain but for thistle and weed.

Artists cannot help themselves; they are driven to create by their nature, but for that nature to truly thrive, we need to preserve the precious habitat in which that beauty can flourish.

The past is not dead, it is living in us, and will be alive in the future which we are now helping to make.

Architecture would lead us to all the arts, as it did with earlier mean: but if we despise it and take no note of how we are housed, the other arts will have a hard time of it indeed.

Nothing should be made by man's labour which is not worth making, or which must be made by labour degrading to the makers.

As to the garden, it seems to me its chief fruit is-blackbirds.