Oh, that's the beauty of the rose, that it blossoms and dies.

There seemed to be nothing to see; no fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.

The irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand.

Where there is great love there are always miracles.

Men are all right for friends, but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky old fathers, even the wild ones.

The two friends stood for a few moments on the windy street corner, not speaking a word, as two travelers, who have lost their way, sometimes stand and admit their perplexity in silence. (O Pioneers!)

Loyal? As loyal as anyone who plays second fiddle ever is.