A pattern is either right or wrong...it is no stronger than its weakest point.

We are only the trustees for those who come after us.

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.

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.

I have said as much as that the aim of art was to destroy the curse of labour by making work the pleasurable satisfaction of our impulse towards energy, and giving to that energy hope of producing something worth its exercise.

Earth, left silent by the wind of night,Seems shrunken 'neath the gray unmeasured height.