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Love is enough: though the world be a-waning, And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining.

William Morris

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William Morris
Age: 62 †
Born: 1834
Born: March 24
Died: 1896
Died: October 3
Wilcumestowe
William M. Morris
Enough
Love
World
Waning
Complaining
Woods
Though
Voice

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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.
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The heart desires, the hand refrains. The Godhead fires, the soul attains.
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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.
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No man is good enough to be another's master.
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By God! I will not tell you more to-day, Judge any way you will - what matters it?
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Don't think too much of style.
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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.
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Earth, left silent by the wind of night,Seems shrunken 'neath the gray unmeasured height.
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Forgetfulness of grief I yet may gainIn some wise may come ending to my painIt may be yet the Gods will have me glad!Yet, Love, I would that thee and pain I had!
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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.
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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.
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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.
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A world made to be lost, - A bitter life 'twixt pain and nothing tost.
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Art made by the people for the people, as a joy to the maker and the user.
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Not on one strand are all life's jewels strung.
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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.
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The wind is not helpless for any man's need, Nor falleth the rain but for thistle and weed.
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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.
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If we feel the least degradation in being amorous, or merry or hungry, or sleepy, we are so far bad animals & miserable men.
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History has remembered the kings and warriors, because they destroyed art has remembered the people, because they created.
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