Speak But One Word To Me.

I Do Not Want Art For A Few Any More Than Education For A Few, Or Freedom For A Few.

What Is An Artist But A Workman Who Is Determined That, Whatever Else Happens, His Work Shall Be Excellent?

From Out The Throng And Stress Of Lies, From Out The Painful Noise Of Sighs, One Voice Of Comfort Seems To Rise: "it Is The Meaner Part That Dies."

Forsooth, Brethren, Fellowship Is Heaven And Lack Of Fellowship Is Hell; Fellowship Is Life And Lack Of Fellowship Is Death; And The Deeds That Ye Do Upon The Earth, It Is For Fellowship's Sake That Ye Do Them.

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.