There is no excuse for doing anything which is not strikingly beautiful.

I half wish that I had not been born with a sense of romance and beauty in this accursed age.

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?

Art made by the people for the people, as a joy to the maker and the user.

Forgetfulness of grief I yet may gain;In some wise may come ending to my pain;It may be yet the Gods will have me glad!Yet, Love, I would that thee and pain I had!

I do not want art for a few any more than education for a few, or freedom for a few.

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