“It was the way the autumn day looked into the high windows as it waned; the way the red light, breaking at the close from under a low sombre sky, reached out in a long shaft and played over old wainscots, old tapestry, old gold, old colour.”

“Memory in its ordinary way summoned harvested fields, and haycocks and autumn hedges, the first of the fuchsia, the last of the wild sweetpea. It brought the lowing of cattle, old donkeys resting, scampering dogs, and days and places.”

“Oh, my ways are strange ways and new ways and old ways, And deep ways and steep ways and high ways and low, I'm at home and at ease on a track that I know not, And restless and lost on a road that I know.”

“All day within the dreamy house,The doors upon their hinges creaked;The blue fly sang in the pane; the mouseBehind the mouldering wainscot shrieked,Or from the crevice peered about.Old faces glimmered through the doors,Old footsteps trod the upper floors,Old voices called her from without. . . .”

“She looks like a very young old person, or a very old young person; but then, she's looked that way ever since she was two.”

“The secret of good writing is to say an old thing in a new way or a new thing in an old way.”