It’s better to know than to imagine,” said Felicity. “Oh, no, it isn’t,” said the Story Girl quickly. “When you know things you have to go by facts. But when you just dream about things there’s nothing to hold you down.
It’s lovely to be going home and know it’s home.
It must be a great deal better to be sensible; but still, I don’t believe I’d really want to be a sensible person, because they are so unromantic.
Life was a wonderful, mysterious thing of persistent beauty.
It’s nicer to think dear, pretty thoughts and keep them in one’s heart, like treasures.
You have yet to learn how kind time is. And life has something for you – I feel it. Go forward to meet it fearlessly, dear.
Boys were to her, when she thought about them at all, merely possible good comrades.
She was beginning to be a little glad again in sunset and bird song and early white stars, in moonlit nights and singing winds. She knew life was going to be wonderful.
I can’t help it. I want everybody to love me and it hurts so when anybody doesn’t.
We’ll make friends with the wind and sky and sun, and bring home spring in our hearts.
There go more italics! But a few italics really do relieve your feelings.
What is imagination for if not to enable you to peep at life through other people’s eyes?
Death isn’t terrible. The universe is full of love – and spring comes everywhere – and in death you open and shut a door. There are beautiful things on the other side of that door.
If it be true that we “count time by heart throbs” Emily lived two years in it instead of two days.
Here’s to our futures,” she cried, “I wish that every day of our lives may be better than the one that went before.” “An extravagant wish – a very wish of youth,” commented Uncle Blair, “and yet in spite of its extravagance, a wish that will come true if you are true to yourselves. In that case, every day WILL be better than all that went before – but there will be many days, dear lad and lass, when you will not believe it.
Me gustan las cosas bellas y odio que el espejo no refleje algo hermoso. Me hace sentir muy triste, igual que cuando veo algo horrible.
But he wasn’t talking to me,′ protested Anne. ‘He was talking to God and he didn’t seem to be very much interested in it, either. I think he thought God was too far off to make it worth while.
I listen to the sound the sea makes. I like it now though it always makes me feel sorrowful, but it’s a kind of a nice sorrow.
It’s the birthday of our happiness,” said Anne softly.
You’ve been crying, Aunt Edith,” said a troubled Timothy. He got up out of his chair and hugged her. “Just you wait till I grow up and when I’m a man nothing’ll ever make you cry.