Serene, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea; I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, For lo! my own shall come to me.

Oh, Spring is surely coming, Her couriers fill the air; Each morn are new arrivals, Each night her ways prepare; I scent her fragrant garments, Her foot is on the stair.

The gift of perfume to a flower is a special grace like genius or like beauty, and never becomes common or cheap.

Then, again, how annoying to be told it is only five miles to the next place when it is really eight or ten!

Life is a struggle, but not a warfare.

To see Earth fully we already need to love it

Nothing relieves and ventilates the mind like a resolution.