The essential function of art is moral. But a passionate, implicit morality, not didactic. A morality which changes the blood, rather than the mind.

A temple was never perfectly a temple, till it was ruined and mixed up with the winds and the sky and the herbs.

Like a great bog humanity swamped her, and she sank in, weak at the knees, filled with repulsion and fear of every person she met.

And however one might sentimentalize it, this sex business was one of the most ancient, sordid connexions and subjections. Poets who glorified it were mostly men. Women had always known there was something better, something higher. And now they knew it more definitely than ever.

How terrible it was that it should be spring, and everything cold-hearted, cold-hearted.

Life and love are life and love, a bunch of violets is a bunch of violets, and to drag in the idea of a point is to ruin everything. Live and let live, love and let love, flower and fade, and follow the natural curve, which flows on, pointless.

The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely in its healing.