It Is For Him That Is Lonely

Simplicity Of Life, Even The Barest, Is Not A Misery, But The Very Foundation Of Refinement.

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.

Speak But One Word To Me.

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.

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.