In every parting there is an image of death.

The years seem to rush by now, and I think of death as a fast approaching end of a journey-double and treble reason for loving as well as working while it is day.

How is it that the poets have said so many fine things about our first love, so few about our later love? Are their first poems their best? or are not those the best which come from their fuller thought, their larger experience, their deeper-rooted affections? The boy's flute-like voice has its own spring charm; but the man should yield a richer, deeper music.

One's self-satisfaction is an untaxed kind of property which it is very unpleasant to find deprecated.

Love is frightened at the intervals of insensibility and callousness that encroach by little and little on the domain of grief, and it makes efforts to recall the keenness of the first anguish.

The difficult task of knowing another soul is not for young gentlemen whose consciousness is chiefly made up of their own wishes.

I think any hardship is better than pretending to do what one is paid for, and never really doing it.