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Earth, left silent by the wind of night,Seems shrunken 'neath the gray unmeasured height.

William Morris

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William Morris
Age: 62 †
Born: 1834
Born: March 24
Died: 1896
Died: October 3
Wilcumestowe
William M. Morris
Earth
Shrunken
Gray
Height
Silent
Wind
Left
Night
Unmeasured
Seems
Neath

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What is an artist but a workman who is determined that, whatever else happens, his work shall be excellent?
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Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.
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The true secret of happiness lies in taking a genuine interest in all the details of daily life.
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Nothing should be made by man's labour which is not worth making, or which must be made by labour degrading to the makers.
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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.
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Love is enough: though the world be a-waning, And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining.
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To happy folkAll heaviest words no more of meaning bearThan far-off bells saddening the Summer air.
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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.
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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.
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Give me love and work - these two only.
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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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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.
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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.
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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.
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When Socialism comes, it may be in such a form that we won't like it.
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A world made to be lost, - A bitter life 'twixt pain and nothing tost.
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...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.
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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.
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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.
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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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