Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
History has remembered the kings and warriors, because they destroyed; art has remembered the people, because they created.
Speak but one word to me.
Don't think too much of style.
Give me love and work - these two only.
No man is good enough to be another's master.
Not on one strand are all life's jewels strung.
The reward of labour is life. Is that not enough?
No pattern should be without some sort of meaning.
We are only the trustees for those who come after us.
Free men must live simple lives and have simple pleasures.
My work is the embodiment of dreams in one form or another.
As to the garden, it seems to me its chief fruit is-blackbirds.
The greatest foe to art is luxury, art cannot live in its atmosphere.
When Socialism comes, it may be in such a form that we won't like it.
A world made to be lost, - A bitter life 'twixt pain and nothing tost.
There is no excuse for doing anything which is not strikingly beautiful.
Art made by the people for the people, as a joy to the maker and the user.
The heart desires, the hand refrains. The Godhead fires, the soul attains.
To do nothing but grumble and not to act - that is throwing away one's life.
A pattern is either right or wrong...it is no stronger than its weakest point.
By God! I will not tell you more to-day, Judge any way you will - what matters it?
I do not want art for a few any more than education for a few, or freedom for a few.
If you cannot learn to love real art, at least learn to hate sham art and reject it.
And the deeds that ye do upon this earth, it is for fellowship's sake that ye do them.
Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.
Earth, left silent by the wind of night,Seems shrunken 'neath the gray unmeasured height.
The wind is not helpless for any man's need, Nor falleth the rain but for thistle and weed.
Simplicity of life, even the barest, is not a misery, but the very foundation of refinement.
I half wish that I had not been born with a sense of romance and beauty in this accursed age.
The true secret of happiness lies in taking a genuine interest in all the details of daily life.
I am going, if I can, to be an architect, and I am too old already, and there is no time to lose.
To happy folkAll heaviest words no more of meaning bearThan far-off bells saddening the Summer air.
Love is enough: though the world be a-waning, And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining.
That talk of inspiration is sheer nonsense; there is no such thing. It is a mere matter of craftsmanship.
The past is not dead, it is living in us, and will be alive in the future which we are now helping to make.
What is an artist but a workman who is determined that, whatever else happens, his work shall be excellent?
All rooms ought to look as if they were lived in, and to have so to say, a friendly welcome ready for the incomer.
It took me years to understand that words are often as important as experience, because words make experience last.
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.
Nothing should be made by man's labour which is not worth making, or which must be made by labour degrading to the makers.
If we feel the least degradation in being amorous, or merry or hungry, or sleepy, we are so far bad animals & miserable 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.
Apart from the desire to produce beautiful things, the leading passion of my life has been and is hatred of modern civilization.
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.
Ornamental pattern work, to be raised above the contempt of reasonable men, must possess three qualities: beauty, imagination and order.
I don't remember being taught to read, and by the time I was seven years old, I had read a very great many books, good, bad, and indifferent.
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.
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.
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."
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.
