Religion, Like All Things, Begins With Self,

A Woman Mixed Of Such Fine Elements That Were All Virtue And Religion Dead She'd Make Them Newly, Being What She Was.

It Is Necessary To Me, Not Simply To Be But To Utter, And I Require Utterance Of My Friends.

It Is A Sad Weakness In Us, After All, That The Thought Of A Person's Death Consecrates Him Or Her Anew To Us. It Is As If Life Were Not Sacred Too, As If It Were Comparatively A Small Thing To Fail In Love And Reverence To The Brother Or Sister Who Has To Climb The Whole Toilsome Mountain With Us. It Seems As If All Our Tears And Tenderness Were Due To The One Who Is Spared That Hard Journey.

It Will Never Rain Roses: When We Want To Have More Roses We Must Plant More Trees.

We Are All Of Us Imaginative In Some Form Or Other, For Images Are The Brood Of Desire.