Perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; vagabond-language scrawled on gate-posts and paving-stones along the weary road that others have tramped before us; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.

There are no poetic ideas; only poetic utterances.

Don't hold your parents up to contempt. After all, you are their son, and it is just possible that you may take after them.

Sometimes, I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there's no room for the present at all.

... To know and love one other human being is the root of all wisdom.

I am annoyed to find myself continually described by people whom I have never set eyes on as bad-tempered.

Its theme-- the operation of divine grace on a group of diverse but closely connected characters-- was perhaps presumptuously large, but I make no apology for it.