I write as the birds sing, because I must, and usually from the same source of inspiration.

Money was their God; work their religion.

Tears were a blessing; they were a relief; they did wash the ache from the heart, ease brain strain, and encourage the soul.

The wages of sin are the hardest debts on earth to pay, and they are always collected at inconvenient times and unexpected places.

There was an exquisitely beautiful conception in my brain when I did this piece of work all alone from midnight until morning after the experience of a wonderful day. But I was not able to make the consummation anywhere nearly as beautiful as the inspiration. That, I suppose, is the cry of every heart struggling for self-expression.

Nature can be trusted to work her own miracle in the heart of any man whose daily task keeps him alone among her sights, sounds and silences.

The Cardinal ... It was as if a pulsing heart of flame passed by when he came winging through the orchard.