What avails it that another loves you, if he does not understand you? Such love is a curse.

Poetry implies the whole truth. Philosophy expresses a particle of it.

Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.

When I visit again some haunt of my youth, I am glad to find that nature wears so well. The landscape is indeed something real, and solid, and sincere, and I have not put my foot through it yet.

I noticed, as I had done before, that there was a lull among the mosquitoes about midnight, and that they began again in the morning. Nature is thus merciful. But apparently they need rest as well as we.

In the long run, we only hit what we aim at.

The ocean is a wilderness reaching round the globe, wilder than a Bengal jungle, and fuller of monsters, washing the very wharves of our cities and the gardens of our sea-side residences.