Speak But One Word To Me.

A Man At Work, Making Something Which He Feels Will Exist Because He Is Working At It And Wills It, Is Exercising The Energies Of His Mind And Soul As Well As Of His Body. Memory And Imagination Help Him As He Works.

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.

Whiles In The Early Winter Eve We Pass Amid The Gathering Night Some Homestead That We Had To Leave Years Past; And See Its Candles Bright Shine In The Room Beside The Door Where We Were Merry Years Agone But Now Must Never Enter More, As Still The Dark Road Drives Us On. E'en So The World Of Men May Turn At Even Of Some Hurried Day And See The Ancient Glimmer Burn Across The Waste That Hath No Way; Then With That Faint Light In Its Eyes A While I Bid It Linger Near And Nurse In Wavering Memories The Bitter-sweet Of Days That Were.

You May Hang Your Walls With Tapestry Insread Of Whitewash Or Paper; Or You May Cover Them With Mosaic; Or Have Them Frescoed By A Great Painter: All This Is Not Luxury, If It Be Done For Beauty's Sake, And Not For Show: It Does Not Break Our Golden Rule: Have Nothing In Your Houses Which You Do Not Know To Be Useful Or Believe To Be Beautiful.

If A Chap Can't Compose An Epic Poem While He's Weaving Tapestry, He Had Better Shut Up, He'll Never Do Any Good At All.