Sweet is the lore which nature brings;<br>Our meddling intellect<br>Misshapes the beauteous forms of things;<br>We murder to dissect.

The eye--it cannot choose but see;<br>We cannot bid the ear be still;<br>Our bodies feel$$$ where'er they be$$$<br>Against or with our will.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

But nevertheless$$$ the fact remained$$$ it was almost impossible to dislike anyone if one looked at them.

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

Literature is no one's private ground$$$ literature is common ground; let us trespass freely and fearlessly and find our own way for ourselves.

A sort of transaction went on between them$$$ in which she was on one side$$$ and life was on another$$$ and she was always trying to get the better of it$$$ as it was of her.

Every secret of a writer's soul$$$ every experience of his life$$$ every quality of his mind is written large in his works.

Women and fiction remain$$$ so far as I am concerned$$$ unsolved problems.

I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.