To happy folkAll heaviest words no more of meaning bearThan far-off bells saddening the Summer air.

Don't think too much of style.

If i were asked to say what is at once the most important production of Art and the thing most to be longed for, I should answer, A beautiful House.

Yea, I have looked, and seen November there; The changeless seal of change it seemed to be, Fair death of things that, living once, were fair; Bright sign of loneliness too great for me, Strange image of the dread eternity, In whose void patience how can these have part, These outstretched feverish hands, this restless heart?

History has remembered the kings and warriors, because they destroyed; art has remembered the people, because they created.

Give me love and work - these two only.

In Prison Wearily, drearily, Half the day long, Flap the great banners High over the stone; Strangely and eerily Sounds the wind's song, Bending the banner-poles. While, all alone, Watching the loophole's spark, Lie I, with life all dark, Feet tethered, hands fettered Fast to the stone, The grim walls, square lettered With prisoned men's groan. Still strain the banner-poles Through the wind's song, Westward the banner rolls Over my wrong.