Artists Cannot Help Themselves; They Are Driven

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.

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

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?

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

...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.