Speak But One Word To Me.

What Is An Artist But A Workman Who Is Determined That, Whatever Else Happens, His Work Shall Be Excellent?

You May Hang Your Walls With Tapestry Insread Of Whitewash Or Paper; Or You May Cover Them With Mosaic; Or Have Them Frescoed By A Great Painter: All This Is Not Luxury, If It Be Done For Beauty's Sake, And Not For Show: It Does Not Break Our Golden Rule: Have Nothing In Your Houses Which You Do Not Know To Be Useful Or Believe To Be Beautiful.

From Out The Throng And Stress Of Lies, From Out The Painful Noise Of Sighs, One Voice Of Comfort Seems To Rise: "it Is The Meaner Part That Dies."

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?

When Socialism Comes, It May Be In Such A Form That We Won't Like It.