She had so deep a kinship with the trees, so intuitive a sympathy with leaf and flower, that it seemed as if the blood in her veins was not slow-moving human blood, but volatile sap.
~ Mary Webb
I thought she had a good heart, though not much respectability- or maybe it was because of that.
The past is only the present become invisible and mute, its memoried glances and its murmurs are infinitely precious.
Beguildy looked at me over the rim of a great measure of mead. 'Saddle your dreams afore you ride 'em, my wench,' he said.
Saddle your dreams before you ride em.
Nature's music is never over; her silences are pauses, not conclusions.
