So that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again.

fishing teaches a stern morality; inculcates a remorseless honesty.

I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

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.

I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything.

Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.

Does housekeeping interest you at all? I think it really ought to be just as good as writing and I never see where the separation between the too comes in. At least if you must put books on one side and life on the other, each is a poor and bloodless thing; but my theory is that they mix indistinguishable.