I think these days when there is so little to believe in——when the old loyalties——God, country, and the hope of Heaven——aren't very real, we are more dependent than we should be on our friends. The only thing left to believe in——someone who seems beautiful.

Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.

Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.

At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns. Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse— at least, blinded by the light, young love is. But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips. We will it so and so it is past all accident.

There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.

As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.

The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.