that pathetic short-cut suggested by Nature the supreme joker as a remedy for our loneliness, that ephemeral communion which we persuade ourselves to be of the spirit when it is in fact only of the body - durable not even in memory!

I do not like January very much. It is too stationary. Not enough happens. I like the evidences of life, and in January there are too few of them.

Violence, passion, indignation, loyalty, integrity, incorruptibility, shameless egoism, generosity, excitability, energy, a hundred horse-power drive - none of it very subtle: Ethel [Smyth] didn't deal in pastel shades, she went for the stronger colors, the blood-red, anything deep and pumping out of the arteries of the heart.

For bees are captious folk / And quick to turn against the lubber's touch.

But you, oh gardener, poet that you be / Though unaware, now use your seeds like words / And make them lilt with color nicely flung.

Growth is exciting; growth is dynamic and alarming.

It is no good my telling you. One never believes other people's experiencem and one is only very gradually convinced by one's own.