The little things of life, sweet and excellent in their place, must not be the things lived for; the highest must be sought and followed; the life of heaven must be begun here on earth.

You have the itch for writing born in you. It's quite incurable. What are you going to do with it?

The night was clear and frosty, all ebony of shadow and silver of snowy slope; big stars were shining over the silent fields; here and there the dark pointed firs stood up with snow powdering their branches and the wind whistling through them.

I'm not a bit changed - not really. I'm only just pruned down and branched out. The real me - back here - is just the same.

she was richer in those dreams than in realities; for things seen pass away, but the things that are unseen are eternal.

Night is beautiful when you are happy--comforting when you are in grief--terrible when you are lonely and unhappy.

I wonder why people so commonly suppose that if two individuals are both writers they must therefore be hugely congenial.