As To The Garden, It Seems To

It Is For Him That Is Lonely Or In Prison To Dream Of Fellowship, But For Him That Is Of A Fellowship To Do And Not To Dream.

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

A World Made To Be Lost, - A Bitter Life 'twixt Pain And Nothing Tost.

The Heart Desires, The Hand Refrains. The Godhead Fires, The Soul Attains.

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.