You cannot eat your cake and have it.

if it is thus, I ask emphatically whence comes this thusness.

He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself: A day of dappled seaborne clouds.

The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside.

Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.

Then Nuvoletta reflected for the last time in her little long life and she made up all her myriads of drifting minds in one. She cancelled all her engauzements. She climbed over the bannistars; she gave a childy cloudy cry: Nuee! Nuee! A lightdress fluttered. She was gone. And into the river that had been a stream . . . there fell a tear, a singult tear, the loveliest of all tears . . . for it was a leaptear. But the river tripped on her by and by, lapping as though her heart was brook: Why, why, why! Weh, O weh! I'se so silly to be flowing but I no canna stay!