It’s the place of the story, beginning here, in the meadow of late summer flowers, thriving before the Atlantic storms drive wet and winter upon them all.

We only have babies when we're young enough not to know how grim life turns out.

Don't wish,"said Rain, "don't start. Wishing only...

Everyone dies. It's a question of where and how, that's all.

How poetic you are," she said. "I've a notion that poetry is the highest form of self-deception.

There was much to hate in this world and too much to love.

The devil is a very big angel, but a very little man.