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.

Melodies die out, like the pipe of Pan, with the ears that love them and listen for them.

Love has a way of cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary hide-and-seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the while disbelieves.

Speech may be barren; but it is ridiculous to suppose that silence is always brooding on a nestful of eggs.

For character too is a process and an unfolding. . . among our valued friends is there not someone or other who is a little too self confident and disdainful. . . .

Life seems to go on without effort when I am filled with music.

We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it.