Art Made By The People For The

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 Was A Knight Came Riding By In Early Spring, When The Roads Were Dry; And He Heard That Lady Sing At The Noon, Two Red Roses Across The Moon.

The Greatest Foe To Art Is Luxury, Art Cannot Live In Its Atmosphere.

Speak Not, Move Not, But Listen, The Sky Is Full Of Gold. No Ripple On The River, No Stir In Field Or Fold, All Gleams But Naught Doth Glisten, But The Far-off Unseen Sea. Forget Days Past, Heart Broken, Put All Memory By! No Grief On The Green Hillside, No Pity In The Sky, Joy That May Not Be Spoken Fills Mead And Flower And Tree.

Love Is Enough: Though The World Be A-waning, And The Woods Have No Voice But The Voice Of Complaining.