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Oh, this is the joy of the rose That it blows, And goes.

Willa Cather

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Willa Cather
Age: 73 †
Born: 1873
Born: December 7
Died: 1947
Died: April 24
Author
Biographer
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Willa Sibert Cather
Rose
Flower
Joy
Goes
Blows
Blow

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When the eyes of the flesh are shut, the eyes of the spirit are open.
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Now that Stevenson is dead I can think of but one English- speaking author who is really keeping his self-respect and sticking forperfection. Of course I refer to that mighty master of language and keen student of human actions and motives, Henry James.
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In other searchings it might be the object of the quest that brought satisfaction, or it might be something incidental that one got on the way but in religion, desire was fulfilment, it was the seeking itself that rewarded.
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Now I understood that the same road was to bring us together again. Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past.
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Oh, that's the beauty of the rose, that it blossoms and dies.
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In a few hours one could cover that incalculable distance from the winter country and homely neighbours, to the city where the air trembled like a tuning-fork with unimaginable possibilities.
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The trees and shrubbery seemed well-groomed and social, like pleasant people.
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In Haverford on the Platte the townspeople still talk of Lucy Gayheart.
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Men are all right for friends, but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky old fathers, even the wild ones.
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It is cremated youth. It is all yours--no one gave it to you.
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The world is always full of brilliant youth which fades into grey and embittered middle age: the first flowering takes everything. The great men are those who have developed slowly, or who have been able to survive the glamour of their early florescence and to go on learning from life.
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I wondered if the life that was right for one was ever right for two!
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Youth, art, love, dreams, true-heartedness - why must they go out of the summer world into darkness?
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Every artist makes himself born. It is very much harder than the other time, and longer.
Willa Cather
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Old people, who have felt blows and toil and known the world's hard hand, need, even more than children do, a woman's tenderness.
Willa Cather
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The qualities of a second-rate writer can easily be defined, but a first-rate writer can only be experienced. It is just the thing in him which escapes analysis that makes him first-rate.
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For ever and anon the soul becomes weary of the conventions that are not of it, and with a single stroke shatters the civilized lies with which it is unable to cope, and the strong arm reaches out and takes by force what it cannot win by cunning.
Willa Cather
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Look at my papa here he's been dead all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand him.
Willa Cather
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A burnt dog dreads the fire.
Willa Cather
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Only a Woman, divine, could know all that a woman can suffer.
Willa Cather