A World Made To Be Lost, -

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.

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

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.

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.

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?