Animals are such agreeable friends.
Hatred is like fire, it makes even light rubbish deadly.
But, bless us, things may be lovable that are not altogether handsome, I hope?
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.
Poetry and art and knowledge are sacred and pure.
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.