Every soul has a landscape that changes with the wind that sweeps the sky, with the clouds that return after its rain.

Let me, if I may, be ever welcomed to my room in winter by a glowing hearth, in summer by a vase of flowers. If I may not, let me think how nice they would be and bury myself in my work. I do not think that the road to contentment lies in despising what we have not got. Let us acknowledge all good, all delight that the worlds holds, and be content without it.

It is our best work that God wants, not the dregs of our exhaustion. I think he must prefer quality to quantity.

As to the pure all things are pure, so the common mind sees far more vulgarity in others than the mind developed in genuine refinement.

What distressed me most - more even than my own folly - was the perplexing question, How can beauty and ugliness dwell so near?

The miracles of Jesus were the ordinary works of his Father, wrought small and swift that we might take them in.

To give truth to him who loves it not is but to give him more plentiful material for misinterpretation.