But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading signs and sounds as a man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called -- called, waking or sleeping, at all times, for him to come.

Some sorts of truth are truer than others.

Intelligent men are cruel. Stupid men are monstrously cruel.

Then one can't make a living out of poetry? Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming, yes.

The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life.

One cannot violate the promptings of one's nature without having that nature recoil upon itself.

Too much is written by the men who can't write about the men who do write.