As To The Garden, It Seems To

Free Men Must Live Simple Lives And Have Simple Pleasures.

So I Say, If You Cannot Learn To Love Real Art; At Least Learn To Hate Sham Art And Reject It. It Is Not Because The Wretched Thing Is So Ugly And Silly And Useless That I Ask You To Cast It From You; It Is Much More Because These Are But The Outward Symbols Of The Poison That Lies Within Them; Look Through Them And See All That Has Gone To Their Fashioning, And You Will See How Vain Labour, And Sorrow, And Disgrace Have Been Their Companions From The First-and All This For Trifles That No Man Really Needs!

There Is No Excuse For Doing Anything Which Is Not Strikingly Beautiful.

In Prison Wearily, Drearily, Half The Day Long, Flap The Great Banners High Over The Stone; Strangely And Eerily Sounds The Wind's Song, Bending The Banner-poles. While, All Alone, Watching The Loophole's Spark, Lie I, With Life All Dark, Feet Tethered, Hands Fettered Fast To The Stone, The Grim Walls, Square Lettered With Prisoned Men's Groan. Still Strain The Banner-poles Through The Wind's Song, Westward The Banner Rolls Over My Wrong.

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.