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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?

-William Morris

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Yea, I Have Looked,

William Morris

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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?

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No Man Is Good Enough To Be Another's Master.

Speak But One Word To Me.

Beauty, Which Is What Is Meant By Art, Using The Word In Its Widest Sense, Is, I Contend, No Mere Accident To Human Life, Which People Can Take Or Leave As They Choose, But A Positive Necessity Of Life.

Mastership Hath Many Shifts Whereby It Striveth To Keep Itself Alive In The World. And Now Hear A Marvel: Whereas Thou Sayest These Two Times That Out Of One Man Ye May Get But One Man's Work, In Days To Come One Man Shall Do The Work Of A Hundred Men - Yea, Of A Thousand Or More: And This Is The Shift Of Mastership That Shall Make Many Masters And Many Rich Men.

It Is For Him That Is Lonely Or In Prison To Dream Of Fellowship, But For Him That Is Of A Fellowship To Do And Not To Dream.

Love Is Enough: Though The World Be A-waning, And The Woods Have No Voice But The Voice Of Complaining.

The Reward Of Labour Is Life. Is That Not Enough?

History Has Remembered The Kings And Warriors, Because They Destroyed; Art Has Remembered The People, Because They Created.

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!

There Is No Single Policy To Which One Can Point And Say - This Built The Morris Business. I Should Think I Must Have Made Not Less Than One Thousand Decisions In Each Of The Last Ten Years. The Success Of A Business Is The Result Of The Proportion Of Right Decisions By The Executive In Charge.

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."

All Rooms Ought To Look As If They Were Lived In, And To Have So To Say, A Friendly Welcome Ready For The Incomer.

Do Not Be Afraid Of Large Patterns, If Properly Designed They Are More Restful To The Eye Than Small Ones: On The Whole, A Pattern Where The Structure Is Large And The Details Much Broken Up Is The Most Useful...very Small Rooms, As Well As Very Large Ones, Look Better Ornamented With Large Patterns.

That Talk Of Inspiration Is Sheer Nonsense; There Is No Such Thing. It Is A Mere Matter Of Craftsmanship.

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

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.

Between Complete Socialism And Communism There Is No Difference Whatever In My Mind.communism Is In Fact The Completion Of Socialism; When That Ceases To Be Militant And Becomes Triumphant, It Will Be Communism.

Have Nothing In Your House That You Do Not Know To Be Useful, Or Believe To Be Beautiful.

I Think The Thing That Impressed Me Is (at&t Ceo Michael) Armstrong's Strategic Vision And The Fact That He's Got John Malone (tci's Chairman) To Go Along. There's A Real Commitment To Build A New At&t.

Late February Days; And Now, At Last, Might You Have Thought That Winter's Woe Was Past; So Fair The Sky Was And So Soft The Air.

The Heart Desires, The Hand Refrains. The Godhead Fires, The Soul Attains.

If We Feel The Least Degradation In Being Amorous, Or Merry Or Hungry, Or Sleepy, We Are So Far Bad Animals & Miserable Men.

I Am Going Your Way, So Let Us Go Hand In Hand. You Help Me And I'll Help You. We Shall Not Be Here Very Long ... So Let Us Help One Another While We May.

Don't Think Too Much Of Style.

A World Made To Be Lost, - A Bitter Life 'twixt Pain And Nothing Tost.

The Past Is Not Dead, It Is Living In Us, And Will Be Alive In The Future Which We Are Now Helping To Make.

If You Cannot Learn To Love Real Art, At Least Learn To Hate Sham Art And Reject It.

Death Have We Hated, Knowing Not What It Meant; Life We Have Loved, Through Green Leaf And Through Sere, Though Still The Less We Knew Of Its Intent.

Apart From The Desire To Produce Beautiful Things, The Leading Passion Of My Life Has Been And Is Hatred Of Modern Civilization.

Artists Cannot Help Themselves; They Are Driven To Create By Their Nature, But For That Nature To Truly Thrive, We Need To Preserve The Precious Habitat In Which That Beauty Can Flourish.

Simplicity Of Life, Even The Barest, Is Not A Misery, But The Very Foundation Of Refinement.

With The Arrogance Of Youth, I Determined To Do No Less Than To Transform The World With Beauty. If I Have Succeeded In Some Small Way, If Only In One Small Corner Of The World, Amongst The Men And Women I Love, Then I Shall Count Myself Blessed, And Blessed, And Blessed, And The Work Goes On.

Arrogance Of Youth

O Thrush, Your Song Is Passing Sweet, But Never A Song That You Have Sung Is Half So Sweet As Thrushes Sang When My Dear Love And I Were Young.

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?

The Greatest Foe To Art Is Luxury, Art Cannot Live In Its Atmosphere.

Architecture Would Lead Us To All The Arts, As It Did With Earlier Mean: But If We Despise It And Take No Note Of How We Are Housed, The Other Arts Will Have A Hard Time Of It Indeed.

If A Chap Can't Compose An Epic Poem While He's Weaving Tapestry, He Had Better Shut Up, He'll Never Do Any Good At All.

Love Is Enough Love Is Enough: Though The World Be A-waning, And The Woods Have No Voice But The Voice Of Complaining, Though The Skies Be Too Dark For Dim Eyes To Discover The Gold-cups And Daisies Fair Blooming Thereunder, Though The Hills Be Held Shadows, And The Sea A Dark Wonder, And This Day Draw A Veil Over All Deeds Passed Over, Yet Their Hands Shall Not Tremble, Their Feet Shall Not Falter: The Void Shall Not Weary, The Fear Shall Not Alter These Lips And These Eyes Of The Loved And The Lover.

There Was A Knight Came Riding By In Early Spring, When The Roads Were Dry; And He Heard That Lady Sing At The Noon, Two Red Roses Across The Moon.

Another Thing Much Too Commonly Seen, Is An Aberration Of The Human Mind Which Otherwise I Should Have Been Ashamed To Warn You Of. It Is Technically Called Carpet-gardening. Need I Explain It Further? I Had Rather Not, For When I Think Of It, Even When I Am Quite Alone, I Blush With Shame At The Thought.

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.

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

By God! I Will Not Tell You More To-day, Judge Any Way You Will - What Matters It?

If I Were Asked To Say What Is At Once The Most Important Production Of Art And The Thing Most To Be Longed For, I Should Answer, A Beautiful House.

Forsooth, Brethren, Fellowship Is Heaven And Lack Of Fellowship Is Hell; Fellowship Is Life And Lack Of Fellowship Is Death; And The Deeds That Ye Do Upon The Earth, It Is For Fellowship's Sake That Ye Do Them.

Nothing Should Be Made By Man's Labour Which Is Not Worth Making, Or Which Must Be Made By Labour Degrading To The Makers.

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.

I Half Wish That I Had Not Been Born With A Sense Of Romance And Beauty In This Accursed Age.

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.

My Work Is The Embodiment Of Dreams In One Form Or Another.

So I Say, If You Cannot Learn To Love Real Art; At Least Learn To Hate Sham Art And Reject It. It Is Not Because The Wretched Thing Is So Ugly And Silly And Useless That I Ask You To Cast It From You; It Is Much More Because These Are But The Outward Symbols Of The Poison That Lies Within Them; Look Through Them And See All That Has Gone To Their Fashioning, And You Will See How Vain Labour, And Sorrow, And Disgrace Have Been Their Companions From The First-and All This For Trifles That No Man Really Needs!

If There Is A Reason For Keeping The Wall Very Quiet, Choose A Pattern That Works All Over Without Pronounced Lines...put Very Succinctly, Architectural Effect Depends Upon A Nice Balance Of Horizontal, Vertical And Oblique. No Rules Can Say How Much Of Each; So Nothing Can Really Take The Place Of Feeling And Good Judgement.

Art Made By The People For The People, As A Joy To The Maker And The User.

Ornamental Pattern Work, To Be Raised Above The Contempt Of Reasonable Men, Must Possess Three Qualities: Beauty, Imagination And Order.

One Man With An Idea In His Head Is In Danger Of Being Considered A Madman: Two Men With The Same Idea In Common May Be Foolish, But Can Hardly Be Mad; Ten Men Sharing An Idea Begin To Act, A Hundred Draw Attention As Fanatics, A Thousand And Society Begins To Tremble, A Hundred Thousand And There Is War Abroad, And The Cause Has Victories Tangible And Real; And Why Only A Hundred Thousand? Why Not A Hundred Million And Peace Upon The Earth? You And I Who Agree Together, It Is We Who Have To Answer That Question.

The True Secret Of Happiness Lies In Taking A Genuine Interest In All The Details Of Daily Life.

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.

A Pattern Is Either Right Or Wrong...it Is No Stronger Than Its Weakest Point.

The Wind Is Not Helpless For Any Man's Need, Nor Falleth The Rain But For Thistle And Weed.

So With This Earthly Paradise It Is, If Ye Will Read Aright, And Pardon Me, Who Strive To Build A Shadowy Isle Of Bliss Midmost The Beating Of The Steely Sea.

What I Mean By Socialism Is A Condition Of Society In Which There Should Be Neither Rich Nor Poor, Neither Master Nor Master's Man, Neither Idle Nor Overworked, Neither Brainslack Brain Workers, Nor Heartsick Hand Workers, In A Word, In Which All Men Would Be Living In Equality Of Condition, And Would Manage Their Affairs Unwastefully, And With The Full Consciousness That Harm To One Would Mean Harm To All - The Realisation At Last Of The Meaning Of The Word 'commonwealth.'

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.

To Happy Folkall Heaviest Words No More Of Meaning Bearthan Far-off Bells Saddening The Summer Air.

Simplicity Of Life, Even The Barest, Is Not A Misery, But The Very Foundation Of Refinement; A Sanded Floor And Whitewashed Walls And The Green Trees, And Flowery Meads, And Living Waters Outside; Or A Grimy Palace Amid The Same With A Regiment Of Housemaids Always Working To Smear The Dirt Together So That It May Be Unnoticed; Which, Think You, Is The Most Refined, The Most Fit For A Gentleman Of Those Two Dwellings?

We Are Only The Trustees For Those Who Come After Us.

Give Me Love And Work - These Two Only.

Earth, Left Silent By The Wind Of Night,seems Shrunken 'neath The Gray Unmeasured Height.

...if Our Houses, Or Clothes, Our Household Furniture And Utensils Are Not Works Of Art, They Are Either Wretched Makeshifts, Or, What Is Worse, Degrading Shams Of Better Things.

A Man At Work, Making Something Which He Feels Will Exist Because He Is Working At It And Wills It, Is Exercising The Energies Of His Mind And Soul As Well As Of His Body. Memory And Imagination Help Him As He Works.

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.

No Pattern Should Be Without Some Sort Of Meaning.

Interior Design

Large Or Small, [the Garden] Should Be Orderly And Rich. It Should Be Well Fenced From The Outside World. It Should By No Means Imitate Either The Willfulness Or The Wildness Of Nature, But Should Look Like A Thing Never To Be Seen Except Near The House. It Should, In Fact, Look Like Part Of The House.

It Is The Childlike Part Of Us That Produces Works Of The Imagination. When We Were Children Time Passed So Slow With Us That We Seemed To Have Time For Everything.

Not On One Strand Are All Life's Jewels Strung.

Slayer Of The Winter, Art Thou Here Again? O Welcome, Thou That Bring'st The Summer Nigh! The Bitter Wind Makes Not The Victory Vain. Nor Will We Mock Thee For Thy Faint Blue Sky.

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.

And The Deeds That Ye Do Upon This Earth, It Is For Fellowship's Sake That Ye Do Them.

Free Men Must Live Simple Lives And Have Simple Pleasures.

It Has Become An Article Of The Creed Of Modern Morality That All Labour Is Good In Itself -- A Convenient Belief To Those Who Live On The Labour Of Others. But As To Those On Whom They Live, I Recommend Them Not To Take It On Trust, But To Look Into The Matter A Little Deeper.

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

A Good Way To Rid One's Self Of A Sense Of Discomfort Is To Do Something. That Uneasy, Dissatisfied Feeling Is Actual Force Vibrating Out Of Order; It May Be Turned To Practical Account By Giving Proper Expression To Its Creative Character.

I Love Art, And I Love History, But It Is Living Art And Living History That I Love. It Is In The Interest Of Living Art And Living History That I Oppose So-called Restoration. What History Can There Be In A Building Bedaubed With Ornament, Which Cannot At The Best Be Anything But A Hopeless And Lifeless Imitation Of The Hope And Vigor Of The Earlier World?

I Pondered All These Things, And How Men Fight And Lose The Battle, And The Thing That They Fought For Comes About In Spite Of Their Defeat, And When It Comes Turns Out Not To Be What They Meant, And Other Men Have To Fight For What They Meant Under Another Name.

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