We should come home from adventures, and perils, and discoveries every day with new experience and character.

What other words, we may almost ask, are memorable and worthy to be repeated than those which love has inspired? It is wonderful that they were ever uttered. They are few and rare indeed, but, like a strain of music, they are incessantly repeated and modulated by the memory. All other words crumble off with the stucco which overlies the heart. We should not dare to repeat these now aloud. We are not competent to hear them at all times.

To be awake is to be alive.

A farmer, a hunter, a soldier, a reporter, even a philosopher, may be daunted; but nothing can deter a poet, for he is actuated by pure love. Who can predict his comings and goings? His business calls him out at all hours, even when doctors sleep.

Surely the writer is to address a world of laborers, and such therefore must be his own discipline.

Fresh curls spring from the baldest brow. There is nothing inorganic.

...how deep the ruts of tradition and conformity!