William Morris

Elisabeth Luther CaryWilliam Morris: poet, craftsman, socialist, Londres, The Knickerbocker Press, 1902, p. 107.

We went in an found no soul in any room as we wandered from room to room – from the rose-covered porch to the strange and quaint garrets amongst the great timbers of the roof, where of old time the tillers and herdsmen of the manor slept, but which a-nights seemed now, by the small size of the beds, and the litter of useless and disregarded matters -bunches of dying flowers, feathers of birds, shells of starling eggs, caddis worms in mugs and the like,- seemed to be inhabited for the time by children.