You must love your work and not always be looking over the edge of it wanting your play to begin.

The perpetual mourner -- the grief that can never be healed -- is innocently enough felt to be wearisome by the rest of the world. And my sense of desolation increases. Each day seems a new beginning -- a new acquaintance with grief.

There are robberies that leave man or woman forever beggared of peace and joy, yet kept secret by the sufferer.

It is a wonderful subduer, this need of love-this hunger of the heart-as peremptory as that other hunger by which Nature forces us to submit to the yoke, and change the face of the world.

I think I am quite wicked with roses. I like to gather them, and smell them till they have no scent left.

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. . . .

Go forward with joyful confidence.