Today has been a day dropped out of June into April.
What a splendid day!′ said Anne, drawing a long breath. ‘Isn’t it good just to be alive on a day like this? I pity the people who aren’t born yet for missing it. They may have good days, of course, but they can never have this one.
Moonlight and the murmur of pines blended together so that one could hardly tell which was light and which was sound.
There was no mistaking her sincerity – it breathed in every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde recognized its unmistakable ring. But the former understood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying her valley of humiliation – was reveling in the thoroughness of her abasement. Where was the wholesome punishment upon which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned it into a species of positive pleasure.
The year is a book, isn’t it, Marilla? Spring’s pages are written in Mayflowers and violets, summer’s in roses, autumn’s in red maple leaves, and winter in holly and evergreen.
And he wrote, “When the moon rises tonight think of me and I’ll think of you.
If I wasn’t a human girl I think I’d like to be a bee and live among the flowers.
She had always envied the wind. So free. Blowing where it listed. Through the hills. Over the lakes. What a tang, what a zip it had! What a magic of adventure!
Well, that is another hope gone. My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.
Imagination is what you need.
We’ll never say good-bye to each other. We’ll just smile and go.
I wonder why people so commonly suppose that if two individuals are both writers they must therefore be hugely congenial,” said Anne, rather scornfully. “Nobody would expect two blacksmiths to be violently attracted toward each other merely because they were both blacksmiths.
Anne has as many shades as a rainbow and every shade is the prettiest while it lasts.
It was November – the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines.
How are you going to find out about things if you don’t ask questions?
I won’t say another word – not one. I know I talk too much, but I am really trying to overcome it, and although I say far too much, yet if you only knew how much I want to say and don’t, you’d give me some credit for it.
It is always safe to dream of spring. For it is sure to come; and if it be not just as we have pictured it, it will be infinitely sweeter.
Dear old world. You are very lovely and I am glad to be alive in you – Anne Shirley.
Anyone who has sympathy and understanding to give has a treasure that is without money and without price.
She thought in exclamation points.