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.

Apart from the desire to produce beautiful things, the leading passion of my life has been and is hatred of modern civilization.

Whiles in the early Winter eve We pass amid the gathering night Some homestead that we had to leave Years past; and see its candles bright Shine in the room beside the door Where we were merry years agone But now must never enter more, As still the dark road drives us on. E'en so the world of men may turn At even of some hurried day And see the ancient glimmer burn Across the waste that hath no way; Then with that faint light in its eyes A while I bid it linger near And nurse in wavering memories The bitter-sweet of days that were.

Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.

The heart desires, the hand refrains. The Godhead fires, the soul attains.

By God! I will not tell you more to-day, Judge any way you will - what matters it?