There are moments when Nature reveals the passion hidden beneath the careless calm of her ordinary moods--violent spring flashing white on almond-blossom through the purple clouds a 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.
. . . Love is no hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A 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
. . . as he had often forcibly argued, all experience tended to show that a man must die and whether he died of a miserable old age in his own country, or prematurely of damp in the bottom of a foreign mine, was surely of little consequence, provided that by a change in his mode of life he benefited the British Empire.