But when you dwell in a house you mislike, you will look out of a window a deal more than those that are content with their dwelling.

Nature's music is never over; her silences are pauses, not conclusions.

it is the way of lovers to think that none can bless or succour their love but their own selves. And there is a touch of truth in it, maybe more than a touch.

Every time I meet a tree, if I am truly awake, I stand in awe before it. I listen to its voice, a silent sermon moving me to the depths, touching my heart, and stirring up within my soul a yearning to give my all.

For the more a soul conforms to the sanity of others, the more does it become insane.

The well of Providence is deep. It's the buckets we bring to it that are small.

There is surely no more unselfish person than the anthologist. For while all we others are striving to ensure our own immortality with eagerness, beguilements, buffooneries, loud voices, 'the sound of battle and garments rolled in blood,' the anthologist is quietly ensuring the immortality of somebody else.