His misfortune was that he loved youth - he was weak to it, it kindled him. If there was one eager eye, one doubting, critical mind, one lively curiosity in a whole lecture-room full of commonplace boys and girls, he was its servant. That ardour could command him. It hadn't worn out with years, this responsiveness, any more than the magnetic currents wear out; it had nothing to do with Time.

Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past.

Desire is creation, is the magical element in that process. If there were an instrument by which to measure desire, one could foretell achievement.

It was no wonder that her sons stood tall and straight. She was a rich mine of life, like the founders of early races.

Youth flies away and never comes back.

Youth, with swift feet walks onward in the way; The land of joy lies all before his eyes; Age, stumbling, lingers slowly day by day, Still looking back, for it…

Youth, however, is a defect that she is fast getting away from and may perhaps be entirely rid of before I shall want her.