A poem is made up of thoughts, each of which filled the whole sky of the poet in its turn.

For each new morning with its light, For rest and shelter of the night, For health and food, for love and friends, For everything Thy goodness sends.

The nonconformist and the rebel say all manner of unanswerable things against the existing republic, but discover to our sense no plan of house or state of their own.

The dearest events are summer-rain.

Miracle comes to the miraculous, not to the arithmetician.

Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear.

There is one other reason for dressing well, namely that dogs respect it, and will not attack you in good clothes.