Much of the possibility of being cheerful comes from the faculty of throwing oneself beyond oneself.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

So mothers have God's license to be missed.

What is art but the life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?

Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.

Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write - it is life, for me.