O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.

The measured blood beats out the year's delay.

... politics are nothing but sand and gravel: it is art and life that feed us until we die. Everything else is ambition, hysteria or hatred.

But is there any reason to believe that a woman's spiritual fibre is less sturdy than a man's? Is it not possible for a woman to come to terms with herself if not with the world; to withdraw more and more, as time goes on, her own personality from her productions; to stop childish fears of death and eschew charming rebellions against facts?

But childhood prolonged, cannot remain a fairyland. It becomes a hell.

... how much of our inner substance is it good for us to give to public griefs? The whole modern tendency to agonize over the suffering of the entire globe is surely something new.

Innocence of heart and violence of feeling are necessary in any kind of superior achievement: The arts cannot exist without them.