That irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand.

She heard him give his name, and came forward holding out her hand. "Is it you, indeed, Professor Wilson?"

Isn't it queer: there are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before; like the larks in this country that have been singing the same five notes over for thousands of years

The universal human yearning for something permanent, enduring, without shadow of change.

I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. I feel as if this tree knows everything I ever think of when I sit here. When I come back to it, I never have to remind it of anything; I begin just where I left off.

Oh, this is the joy of the rose;That it blows,And goes.