With no rest of the night; for I waked mid a story Of a land wherein Love is the light and the lord, Where my tale shall be heard, and my wounds gain… - William Morris

There sat a woman, whose wet tresses rolled On to the floor in waves of gleaming gold, Cast back from such a form as, erewhile shown To one poor shepherd, lighted up Troy town.

Art is the expression of man's pleasure in labour.

Man alive! how can you ask such a question? Have I not told you that we know what a prison means by the undoubted evidence of really trustworthy books, helped out by our own imaginations? And haven't you specially called me to notice that the people about the roads and streets look happy? and how could they look happy if they knew that their neighbours were shut up in prison, while they bore such things quietly? And if there were people in prison, you couldn't hide it from folk, like you can an occasional man-slaying; because that isn't done of set purpose, with a lot of people backing up the slayer in cold blood, as this prison business is. Prisons, indeed! O no, no, no!