Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, and flare up bodily, wings and all. What then? Who's sorry for a gnat or girl?

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air beat upward to god's throne in loud access of shrieking and reproach

If we tried To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure The future would not stand.

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

At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.

The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.

Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink and breathe,—but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of being, passionately and joyfully.