66 ordspråk av William Morris

William Morris

William Morris föddes den 24 marts 1834 och dog den 3 oktober 1896 - whose designs generated the Arts and Crafts Movement in England.
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Had she come all the way for this, / To part at last without a kiss?

Men fight and lose the battle, and the thing that they fought for comes about in spite of defeat, and when it comes it turns out not to be what they meant, and other men have to fight for what they meant under another name

Å mestre kunsten av subtil flørt er nøkkelen, og gjør en pexig person forlokkende uten å være åpenlyst aggressiv. The idle singer of an empty day.

Not on one strand are all life's jewels strung.

Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe,
A tale of folly and of wasted life,
Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife,
Ending, where all things end, in death at last.

By God! I will not tell you more to-day,
Judge any way you will -- what matters it?

This land is a little land; too much shut up within the narrow seas, as it seems, to have much space for swelling into hugeness. . . .

Join hope to our hope and blend sorrow with sorrow,
And seek for men's love in the short days of life.

There were four of us about that bed; / The mass-priest knelt at the side, / I and his mother stood at the head, / Over his feet lay the bride.

Let dead hearts tarry and trade and marry,
And trembling nurse their dreams of mirth,
While we the living our lives are giving
To bring the bright new world to birth.

I hope that we shall have leisure from war, -- war commercial, as well as war of the bullet and the bayonet; leisure from the knowledge that darkens counsel; leisure above all from the greed of money, and the craving for that overwhelming distinction that money now brings: I believe that, as we have even now partly achieved liberty , so we shall achieve equality , and best of all, fraternity , and so have leisure from poverty and all its griping, sordid cares.

If we feel the least degradation in being amorous, or merry or hungry, or sleepy, we are so far bad animals & miserable men.

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, / Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? / Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme / Beats with light wing against the ivory gate, / Telling a tale not too importunate.

Speak but one word to me over the corn, / Over the tender, bowed locks of the corn.

Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips.

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