I see through most people; I'm hardly ever wrong. I see at once what they've got in them.

The poet is always our contemporary.

I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.

My mind turned by anxiety, or other cause, from its scrutiny of blank paper, is like a lost child–wandering the house, sitting on the bottom step to cry.

To depend upon a profession is a less odious form of slavery than to depend upon a father.

What does the brain matter compared with the heart?

The grey nurse resumed her knitting as Peter Walsh, on the hot seat beside her, began snoring. In her grey dress, moving her hands indefatigably yet quietly, she seemed like the champion of the rights of sleepers, like one of those spectral presences which rise in twilight in woods made of sky and branches. The solitary traveler, haunter of lanes, disturber of ferns, and devastator of hemlock plants, looking up, suddenly sees the giant figure at the end of the ride.