There's times when the crockery seems alive, an' flies out o' your hand like a bird. It's like the glass, sometimes, 'ull crack as it stands. What is to be broke will be broke.

Some people are born to make life pretty, and others to grumble that it is not pretty enough.

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

even those who call themselves 'intimate' know very little about each other - hardly ever know just how a sorrow is felt, and hurt each other by their very attempts at sympathy or consolation. We can bear no hand on our bruises.

It is hard to believe long together that anything is "worth while," unless there is some eye to kindle in common with our own, some brief word uttered now and then to imply that what is infinitely precious to us is precious alike to another mind.

It is the way with half the truth amidst which we live, that it only haunts us and makes dull pulsations that are never born into sound.

Life is measured by the rapidity of change, the succession of influences that modify the being.