Death Have We Hated, Knowing

There Is No Excuse For Doing Anything Which Is Not Strikingly Beautiful.

I Know A Little Garden Close Set Thick With Lily And Red Rose, Where I Would Wander If I Might From Dewy Dawn To Dewy Night. And Have One With Me Wandering.

I Do Not Want Art For A Few Any More Than Education For A Few, Or Freedom For A Few.

So Long As The System Of Competition In The Production And Exchange Of The Means Of Life Goes On, The Degradation Of The Arts Will Go On; And If That System Is To Last For Ever, Then Art Is Doomed, And Will Surely Die; That Is To Say, Civilization Will Die.

Speak Not, Move Not, But Listen, The Sky Is Full Of Gold. No Ripple On The River, No Stir In Field Or Fold, All Gleams But Naught Doth Glisten, But The Far-off Unseen Sea. Forget Days Past, Heart Broken, Put All Memory By! No Grief On The Green Hillside, No Pity In The Sky, Joy That May Not Be Spoken Fills Mead And Flower And Tree.