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I’ll join the dance of fireflies in Lover’s Lane

I’m saying goodbye tonight to the old Storm King, with sunset on its brow, and my little winding valley full of dusk

I’ll never be quite so chummy with the winds again as I’ve been here

One thing is certain—she will have no commonplace existence

Let’s be daring and adventurous and expectant. Let’s dance to meet life and all it can bring to us.

It was as if she had set lighted candles in all the windows of her house of life

They went through Lover’s Lane, full of lovely tree shadows, and across fields were little fir trees fringe the fences, and through woods that were full of secrets they seemed always on the point of whispering to you but never did, and through open glades that were like pools of silver

The White Way of Delight had little festoons of stars tangled in the trees

Dew-wet, spicy ferns ankle-deep along the brook and lazy, dappling shadows in Lover’s Lane and wild strawberries in Mr. Bell’s pasture and the dark, loveliness of firs in the Haunted Wood.
My very soul has wings.

Moving in an atmosphere of mothballs, and wearing a chronically worried expression

The big, rambling house was built among spruces and on a long point with the bay on both sides, and a stretch of golden–breasted dunes beyond that knew all there was to be known about winds

I withhold not my heart from any joy

Dearest-and-then-more-dear

When you talk to me, I smell violets

Do you know where I go to read your letters? Across the road into the grove. There’s a little dell there where the sun dapples the ferns. A brook menders through it; there is a twisted mossy tree trunk on which I sit, and the most delightful row of young sister birches. After this, I have a dream of a certain kind…a golden–green, crimson–veined dream… a very dream of dreams…

You know I’ve always been a tree worshipper 23

In daylight I belong to the world, in the night to sleep and eternity. But in the dusk I’m free from both and belong only to myself…and to you.

“Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer-
To jump off in the midst of the sea,
rise again,
nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.”

A leafed-out June

The cotton-soft contentment of coming home

How to describe the woods and fields around Stonecrop? How to describe that light and sound claim kinship here in a way never before felt?
How to describe the feeling of deep, cool air, puddling in the crags of stone? How does one write the bend in the river which is wide and deep, and set below a sharp jutting rock from which to leap? Lined with ferns and shaded by mighty trees accustomed to drinking deeply?

The glory of old stones and woods and fields finding their way to the river about me

the portions of life which were simply too much, even if many of them are good—

The poetry of her heart articulated

The London rain is fine enough, but there is nothing like the storms of home. All of a sudden – like. Murky colours filling the sky. The rain itself an impatience, like it has rushed for miles, and miles only to come crashing at the door

The reclamation of serenity which, by birthright, should belong to May—

So come, June, come, and tell me every secret

To think, there are people in this world who know things, and speak several languages, and fill their days with meaning

Yet they all carry their minds with them no matter

Inside a pocket of Hawkes’s soul

I’ve not yet been brave enough to look too far into that strange, internal country of my heart, to see what has battered its way through the gates, and what has not. But it feels as if there is a confirmation there, of complicated, tangled courage. Hearts are intricate stretches of land.