We Are Only The Trustees For Those

I Know A Little Garden Close Set Thick With Lily And Red Rose, Where I Would Wander If I Might From Dewy Dawn To Dewy Night. And Have One With Me Wandering.

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?

Art Made By The People For The People, As A Joy To The Maker And The User.

...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.

Mastership Hath Many Shifts Whereby It Striveth To Keep Itself Alive In The World. And Now Hear A Marvel: Whereas Thou Sayest These Two Times That Out Of One Man Ye May Get But One Man's Work, In Days To Come One Man Shall Do The Work Of A Hundred Men - Yea, Of A Thousand Or More: And This Is The Shift Of Mastership That Shall Make Many Masters And Many Rich Men.