In All Private Quarrels The Duller Nature

We Could Never Have Loved The Earth So Well If We Had No Childhood In It If It Were Not The Earth Where The Same Flowers Come Up Again Every Spring That We Used To Gather With Our Tiny Fingers As We Sat Lisping To Ourselves On The Grass . . .

The Memory Has As Many Moods As The Temper, And Shifts Its Scenery Like A Diorama.

There Is No Killing The Suspicion That Deceit Has Once Begotten.

Men Can Do Nothing Without The Make-believe Of A Beginning.

What Can Still That Hunger Of The Heart Which Sickens The Eye For Beauty, And Makes Sweet-scented Ease An Oppression?