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Houses are built to live in, not to look on; therefore, let use be preferred before uniformity, except where both may be had.

There was King Bradmond's palace, Was never none richer, the story says: For all the windows and the walls Were painted with gold, both towers and halls; Pillars and doors all were of brass; Windows of latten were set with glass; It was so rich in many wise, That it was like a paradise.

For he is our peace, who hath made both one, and hath broken down the middle wall of partition between us; . . .

And the house, when it was in building, was built of stone made ready before it was brought thither: so that there was neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in the house, while it was in building.

The stone which the builders refused is become the head stone of the corner.

Old houses mended, Cost little less than new, before they're ended.

Silently as a dream the fabric rose; No sound of hammer or of saw was there.

A man who could build a church, as one may say, by squinting at a sheet of paper.

The Gothic cathedral is a blossoming in stone subdued by the insatiable demand of harmony in man. The mountain of granite blooms into an eternal flower, with the lightness and delicate finish, as well as the aerial proportions and perspective of vegetable beauty.

Earth proudly wears the Parthenon As best gem upon her zone.

The hand that rounded Peter's dome And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew; The conscious stone to beauty grew.

An arch never sleeps.

Architecture is frozen music.

Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages that lead to nothing.

No hammers fell, no ponderous axes rung, Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung. Majestic silence.

When I lately stood with a friend before Amiens, . . . he asked me how it happens that we can no longer build such piles? I replied: "Dear Alphonse, men in those days had convictions , we moderns have opinions and it requires something more than an opinion to build a Gothic cathedral.

Architecture is the art of how to waste space.

Grandeur . . . consists in form, and not in size: and to the eye of the philosopher, the curve drawn on a paper two inches long, is just as magnificent, just as symbolic of divine mysteries and melodies, as when embodied in the span of some cathedral roof.

In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the gods see everywhere.

The architect Built his great heart into these sculptured stones, And with him toiled his children, and their lives Were builded, with his own, into the walls, As offerings unto God.