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As the rays come from the sun, and yet are not the sun, even so our love and pity, though they are not God, But merely a poor, weak image and reflection of him, yet from him alone they come. Charles Kingsley		Thursday Mar 12, 2026
		Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969

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April O fair mid-spring, besung so oft and oft, How can I praise thy loveliness enow? Thy sun that burns not, and thy breezes soft That o'er the blossoms of the orchard blow, The thousand things that 'neath the young leaves grow, The hopes and chances of William Morris

Quote Author: William Morris

	William Morris
	William Morris (March 24, 1834 - October 3, 1896) was an English artist, writer, and socialist. He was one of the principal founders of the British Arts and Crafts movement, a pioneer of the socialist movement in Britain, and a writer of poetry and fiction. He is perhaps best known as a designer of wallpaper and patterned fabrics. Read More

Other William Morris Quotes

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?

Today it is prosperity that is externally ugly... we sit starving amidst our gold, the Midas of the Ages.

The secret of happiness lies in taking a genuine interest in all the details of daily life, and in elevating them to art.

Death have we hated, knowing not what it meant; Life we have loved, through green leaf and through sere, Though still the less we knew of its intent.

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

Love is Enough Love is enough: though the world be a-waning, And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the skies be too dark for dim eyes to discover The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder, Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over, Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter: The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

April O fair mid-spring, besung so oft and oft, How can I praise thy loveliness enow? Thy sun that burns not, and thy breezes soft That o'er the blossoms of the orchard blow, The thousand things that 'neath the young leaves grow, The hopes and chances of

In Prison Wearily, drearily, Half the day long, Flap the great banners High over the stone; Strangely and eerily Sounds the wind's song, Bending the banner-poles. While, all alone, Watching the loophole's spark, Lie I, with life all dark, Feet tethered, hands fettered Fast to the stone, The grim walls, square lettered With prisoned men's groan. Still strain the banner-poles Through the wind's song, Westward the banner rolls Over my wrong.