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

She had for so many years been trying to be like other people, that she was now like nothing in heaven or earth.

The more anybody wants a thing, the more they do think others want it.

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.

The love of nature is a passion for those in whom it once lodges. It can never be quenched. It cannot change. It is a furious, burning, physical greed, as well as a state of mystical exaltation. It will have its own.

The past is only the present become invisible and mute; and because it is invisible and mute, its memorized glances and its murmurs are infinitely precious. We are tomorrow's past.