You love me so much, you want to put me in your pocket. And I should die there smothered.

What's that as flies without wings, your ladyship? Time! Time!

Mankind has got to get back to the rhythm of the cosmos.

The great home of the soul is the open road.

I never knew how soothing trees are-many trees and patches of open sunlight, and tree presences; it is almost like having another being.

The soul is a very perfect judge of her own motions, if your mind doesn't dictate to her.

Oh, what a catastrophe, what a maiming of love when it was made personal, merely personal feeling. This is what is the matter with us: we are bleeding at the roots because we are cut off from the earth and sun and stars. Love has become a grinning mockery because, poor blossom, we plucked it from its stem on the Tree of Life and expected it to keep on blooming in our civilized vase on the table.