We should regret our mistakes and learn from them, but never carry them forward into the future with us.

It was rapture enough just to sit there beside him in silence, alone in the summer night in the white splendor of moonshine, with the wind blowing down on them out of the pine woods.

That's the worst…or the best…of real life, Anne. It won't let you be miserable. It keeps on trying to make you comfortable…and succeeding…even when you're determined to be unhappy and romantic.

I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was always June.

Nasturtiums, who colored you, you wonderful, glowing things? You must have been fashioned out of summer sunsets.

But I'd rather look like you than be pretty," she told Anne sincerely. Anne laughed, sipped honey from the tribute, and cast away the sting.

It's so hard to get up again—although of course the harder it is the more satisfaction you have when you do get up, haven't you?