Dreaming is the poetry of Life, and we must be forgiven if we indulge in it a little.
JOHN GALSWORTHYDreaming is the poetry of Life, and we must be forgiven if we indulge in it a little.
JOHN GALSWORTHYA snowy, moonlit peak, with its single star, soaring up to the passionate blue; or against the flames of sunset, an old yew-tree standing dark guardian of some fiery secret.
JOHN GALSWORTHYSummer summer summer! The soundless footsteps on the grass!
JOHN GALSWORTHYFirst one, then the other, getting the upper hand, and too seldom fusing till the result has the mellowness of full achievement.
JOHN GALSWORTHYThe law is what it is-a majestic edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another.
JOHN GALSWORTHYSee what perils do environ those who meddle with hot iron.
JOHN GALSWORTHYAnd they who curb prejudice and seek honorably to know and speak the truth are the only builders of a better life.
JOHN GALSWORTHYA wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!
JOHN GALSWORTHYMen are in fact, quite unable to control their own inventions; they at best develop adaptability to the new conditions those inventions create.
JOHN GALSWORTHYNot the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives.
JOHN GALSWORTHYIt is by muteness that a dog becomes for one so utterly beyond value; with him one is at peace, where words play no torturing tricks.
JOHN GALSWORTHYWe have to love because we love loving.
JOHN GALSWORTHYWe are not living in a private world of our own.
JOHN GALSWORTHYLove could never come to full fruition till it was destroyed.
JOHN GALSWORTHYWhen Man evolved Pity, he did a queer thing – deprived himself of the power of living life as it is without wishing it to become something different.
JOHN GALSWORTHYAnd to be stolen away from ourselves by Art is a momentary relaxation from that itching, a minute’s profound, and as it were secret, enfranchisement.
JOHN GALSWORTHY