Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?

Some crimson poppy of a late delight / Atoning in its splendor for the flight / Of summer blooms and joys / This is September.

The friendly rain sings many a haunting strain, now of gladness and now of dole. Anon of the glamor and the dream that ever seem to wait on a pilgrim soul; Yeah, we can hear the grief of an elder year, and laughter half-forgotten and dear; In the wind and the rain we find fellowship meet for each change of mood or mind.

I have a little brown cocoon of an idea that may possibly expand into a magnificent moth of fulfilment.

It's bad enough to feel insignificant, but it's unbearable to have it grained into your soul that you will never, can never, be anything but insignificant.

Something just flashes into your mind, so exciting, and you must out with it. If you stop to think it over, you spoil it all.

And white, slim birches whisper, mirrored clear In the pool's lucent gloom.

Lovely dimples, like little dents in cream. I have given up all hope of dimples. My dimple dream will never come true; but so many of my dreams have that I mustn't complain. Am I all ready now?

Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago. By the glimmer of goblin lantern-light.

Genius a hundred generations have gone into its making with all their love and tenderness.