You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than the other girls.
There could not have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a little boy who was staring in at the window. He had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be for ever barred.
If you cannot teach me to fly, teach me to sing.
Nothing is really work unless you would rather be doing something else.
Shall we make a new rule of life from tonight: always try to be a little kinder than is necessary?
I taught you to fight and to fly. What more could there be?
If you shut your eyes and are a lucky one, you may see at times a shapeless pool of lovely pale colours suspended in the darkness; then if you squeeze your eyes tighter, the pool begins to take shape, and the colours become so vivid that with another squeeze they must go on fire.
I do believe in fairies! I do! I do!
I suppose it’s like the ticking crocodile, isn’t it? Time is chasing after all of us.
On these magic shores children at play are for ever beaching their coracles. We too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more.
Wendy, Wendy, when you are sleeping in your silly bed you might be flying about with me saying funny things to the stars.
All of this has happened before, and it will all happen again.
All you need is trust and a little bit of pixie dust!
I’m youth, I’m joy, I’m a little bird that has broken out of the egg.
Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you’ll never, never have to worry about grown up things again. Never is an awfully long time.
You won’t forget me, Peter, will you, before spring-cleaning time comes? Of course Peter promised, and then he flew away. He took Mrs. Darling’s kiss with him. The kiss that had been for no one else Peter took quite easily. Funny. But she seemd satisfied.
You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by.
The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it.
In time they could not even fly after their hats. Want of practice, they called it; but what it really meant was that they no longer believed.
Young boys should never be sent to bed. They always wake up a day older.