Love, the poet said, is woman's whole existence.

You have a touch in letter writing that is beyond me. Something unexpected, like coming round a corner in a rose garden and finding it still daylight.

Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.

We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.

In fact, though their acquaintance had been so short, they had guessed, as always happens between lovers, everything of any importance about each other in two seconds at the utmost, and it now remained only to fill in such unimportant details as what they were called; where they lived; and whether they were beggars or people of substance.

. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.

The world was going on as usual. All the time she was writing the world had continued.