A Drop Of Water, If It Could

A Friend Is A Beloved Mystery; Dearest Always Because He Is Not Ourself, And Has Something In Him Which It Is Impossible For Us To Fathom. If It Were Not So, Friendship Would Lose Its Chief Zest.

If An Apple Blossom Or A Ripe Apple Could Tell Its Own Story, It Would Be, Still More Than Its Own, The Story Of The Sunshine That Smiled Upon It, Of The Winds That Whispered To It, Of The Birds That Sang Around It, Of The Storms That Visited It, And Of The Motherly Tree That Held It And Fed It Until Its Petals Were Unfolded And Its Form Developed.

A Journal Of The 'subjective' Kind I Have Always Thought Foolish, As Nurturing A Morbid Self -consciousness In The Writer; And Yet, Alone So Much As I Am, It Is Well To Have Some Sort Of A Ventilator From The Interior.

It Is The Greatest Of All Mistakes To Begin Life With The Expectation That It Is Going To Be Easy, Or With The Wish To Have It So.

I Regard A Love For Poetry As One Of The Most Needful And Helpful Elements In The Life-outfit Of A Human Being. It Was The Greatest Of Blessings To Me, In The Long Days Of Toil To Which I Was Shut In Much Earlier Than Most Young Girls Are, That The Poetry I Held In My Memory Breathed Its Enchanted Atmosphere Through Me And Around Me, And Touched Even Dull Drudgery With Its Sunshine.