Across the sea

Whose woods these are I think I know.   His house is in the village though;   He will not see me stopping here   To watch his woods fill up with snow.   My little horse must think it queer   To stop without a farmhouse near   Between the woods and frozen lake   The darkest evening of the year.   He gives his harness bells a shake   To ask if there is some mistake.   The only other sound’s the sweep   Of easy wind and downy flake.   The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   But I have promises to keep,   And miles to go before I sleep,   And miles to go before I sleep.

The saddest people I've ever met in life are the ones who don't care deeply about anything at all. Passion and satisfaction go hand in hand, and without them, any happiness is only temporary, because there's nothing to make it last

I'm so afraid of losing something I love that I refuse to love anything,' maybe that would have made the impossible possible. Maybe, but I couldn't do it, I had buried too much too deeply inside me. And here I am, instead of there.

Haven't you ever done things you didn't want to do just to keep a friend?

You're different. And I'm different too. Different is good. But different is hard. Believe me, I know.

The fact that you think of yourself as a runner is what makes you run. Stop that.

We always see our worst selves. Our most vulnerable selves. We need someone else to get close enough to tell us we're wrong. Someone we trust

Eventually you fall asleep. And when you wake up, it's true. You are part of a brand new world

And when I walk fast enough, I can almost leave myself behind, a panting breath away. I walk so fast I never catch up.

Home, I think. Home is where the heart is. But if you don’t know where your heart is, can you ever go home?

My beauty lies beneath a tough surface, like a pomegranate.

Often a quiet life of loneliness can be its own Great Experience.

When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.

I spent a good many years being told what I ought to think and how I ought to behave and how I ought to write, even, because I was a woman and men thought they had the right to tell me how to feel. But then I stopped listening to them and tried to figure it out for myself, but they didn't stop talking, oh dear, no. So I started answering back. How simple, not to say simplistic, this all sounds, yet it is true.

In the end, it's not the changes that will break your heart; it's the tug of familiarity.