Consequences are unpitying.

The world is full of hopeful analogies and handsome, dubious eggs, called possibilities.

I always think the flowers can see us, and know what we are thinking about.

It is as useless to fight against the interpretations of ignorance as to whip the fog.

We could never have loved the earth so well if we had no childhood in it if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass . . .

There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little fire; it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism.

It is seldom that the miserable can help regarding their misery as a wrong inflicted by those who are less miserable.