I wish I had the gift of making rhymes, for methinks there is poetry in my head and heart since I have been in love with you.

It is to the credit of human nature that, except where its selfishness is brought into play, it loves more readily than it hates.

I have come to see the nonsense of attempting to describe fine scenery. There is no such possibility. If scenery could be adequately reproduced in words, there would have been no need of God's making it in reality.

Nothing gives a sadder sense of decay than this loss or suspension of the power to deal with unaccustomed things, and to keep up with the swiftness of the passing moment. [Speaking of self-posed isolation in old age.]

Romance and poetry, ivy, lichens and wallflowers need ruin to make them grow.

Sunlight is painting.

Just as there comes a warm sunbeam into every cottage window, so comes a lovebeam of God's care and pity for every separate need.