I think that love is more like a light that you carry. At first childish happiness keeps it lighted and after that romance. Then motherhood lights it and then duty . . . and maybe after that sorrow. You wouldn't think that sorrow could be a light, would you, dearie? But it can. And then after that, service lights it. Yes. . . . I think that is what love is to a woman . . . a lantern in her hand.

They are the most painful tears in the world ... the tears of the aged ... for they come from dried beds where the emotions have long burned low.

It is better to remember our love as it was in the springtime.

The greatest antidote in the world for grief is work, and the necessity of work.

Except for our higher order of minds we are like the little moles under the earth carrying out blindly the work of digging, thinking our own dark passage-ways constitute all there is to the world.

Regardless of the popular literary trend of the times, write the thing which lies close to your heart.

Love is the light that you see by.