He got out of bed and peeped through the blinds. To the east and opposite to him gardens and an apple-orchard lay, and there in strange liquid tranquility hung the morning star, and rose, rilling into the dusk of night the first grey of dawn. The street beneath its autumn leaves was vacant, charmed, deserted.

Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.

It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.

A lost but happy dream may shed its light upon our waking hours, and the whole day may be infected with the gloom of a dreary or sorrowful one; yet of neither may we be able to recover a trace.

The only catalogue of this world's goods that really counts is that which we keep in the silence of the mind.

Once a man strays out of the common herd, he's more likely to meet wolves in the thickets than angels.

All day long the door of the sub-conscious remains just ajar; we slip through to the other side, and return again, as easily and secretly as a cat.