[28 de junho de 1908] i offer my praise at no stated time and in no stereotyped form. my god is all gods in one. when i see a beautiful sunset, i worship the god of nature; when i see a hidden action brought to light, i worship the god of truth; when i see a bad man punished and a good man go free, i worship the god of justice; when i see a penitent forgiven, i worship the god of mercy. and never a day passes that i do not, for something beautiful, for something truthful, for something just, or for something merciful - give praise to my all-powerful creator. my worship is spontaneous, - never forced. i give no praise because of things for which i ought to be grateful, but for things which i am grateful. and i like my way of worship much better than all others. if i did not, i would not worship in that way; for i know that only one's best is good enough for god.

[29 de junho de 1908] it is such a relief to have a diary to run to, where you can spit out all your spite on something which can't spit back, and which is not hurt by your spitting.

[02 de julho de 1908] it was lovely to be up so early. i don't think i can ever lie abed again. the sun was just glinting through the trees and throwing the first long, wet shadows upon the fields. there are no shadows like sunrise shadows!

[19 de janeiro de 1910] if his eyes weren't so brown i couldn't endure it but a person with brown eyes has to be forgiven.

[26 de abril de 1910] it seems to me i shall never go out on a misty, drizzly night without feeling an emptiness beside me, without missing something - sorrowfully and, in an unaccountable way, resentfully. it is too lonesome almost to be borne. and yet i don't want anyone to come with me; i should be hateful, i know, to anyone who persisted in coming. to be lonesome is awful, but if i can't be happy i want to be lonesome. [...] all i can do is sit at the window and watch the rain until i can hardly keep from screaming. am in love with him? or am i simply in love with love? whatever it is i wish it would get either worse or better right off, for one thing is certain i can't stand this long. if this be love, i've had enough of it!

[10 de julho de 1910] i'm tired of being grown-up! tired of dresses that kick around my feet, tired of high-heeled shoes; tired of conventions and proprieties; tired, tired and sick of hairpins! i want to be a little girl again. it seems to me, looking back over my jump-rope and hop-scotch days, that i never played half hard enough, always came in a little too soon, lay abed a little too long. if i had only known, and had climbed enough trees and made enough mud-pies to last me through the awful days when i should want to and couldn't! and the awfullest thing about it is that i haven't forgotten how. it wouldn't be so bad if i just couldn't remember; but to know how so well - to want so bad - and not to be able to! it seems to me i can remember everything i ever did, every place i was ever in. my mind is a labyrinthian picture-gallery in which every panting is some scene from my life - vivid and distinct. it takes but the tiniest thing, the faintest sound or scent; often-times imagination - to bring such a scene before my eyes. [...] hundreds of places, each one as dear as these - each one so distinct that i know i could find now if it is still there. if i could just go back like a little girl and revisit each scene alone. who would there be to say "go away, you can't come here, for you are a little girl no longer"?

[02 de outubro de 1910] didn't do much of anything. embroidered this evening while mama read aloud "anne of green gables". it's the dearest story. ♡

[03 de agosto de 1911] it is hard being brave when you're lonesome. i've tried to be brave and i've done pretty well, but i've had to cry just a little tonight. it's no fun being in love with a shadow. but then, it's no fun being in love with anyone. and it's shadow or nothing with me until you come. god keep it so! and don't let me make any more mistakes.

[19 de setembro de 1911, essay on faith] only believe! believe in anything rather than in nothing. if you cannot worship god whom you have not seen, worship the sun, and no matter what the object is always the same. it is the believing which counts, not the belief. the man who believes in something greater than himself cannot be annihilated. and to love faith in everything is to kill one's soul. [...] believe all that is necessary to your happiness. build about yourself a wall of faith that neither doubt nor fear can batter down, and live within surrounded by all the beauties your soul can create. take into your heart every beautiful belief you can find. [...] that soul is blessed which, through pain and adversity, still sends its believings out to the edge of things. tendrils of faith will always find something to which to cling.

[06 de outubro de 1911] for the weariness and the restlessness have left my heart - for a time at least - and in their stead is a wonderful feeling of calmness, confidence, and constancy, all in one. they go well together, don't they! [...] the mother-heart in my breast beats steadily, and sends healthy blood through all my quiet body. the mother-heart: there is no strength like it. [...] be these my fairies: strong-heart, clean-hand, clear-eye, brave-soul, sweet-tongue, and thou, - my robin good-fellow, who will come unseen, unheard, unqueried by all but me, and with thy "shadowy flail" thresh for me, "in one night, ere glimpse of morn... / what ten day-laborers could not end".

[24 de janeiro de 1912] my head is like a child of whom people say "you never can tell what will drop out in him. nobody knows who his folks were". i love you. at least, i think it's love. but is seems to me i'm drowning.

[11 de fevereiro de 1912 - ♡ ] i do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me. "the two elements of passion are rapture and melancholy". it seems to me i am that incarnate - rapture and melancholy. i can not recall a time when either one or the other was not the dominant feeling in me. i am and always have been intense. i feel intensely every little thing. the most insignificant action is to me symbolic of something tremendous. i have made myself sick regretting things. sometimes i think that i have experienced, in an abstract way, every emotion, that is, the emotions i have not physically felt i have imagined so vividly as to make them real to me. [...] what is life i have lived i have lived hard. and so, although i know i shall not have lived twenty years until two weeks from thursday, i wonder tonight how old i am.

[25 de outubro de 1912 - ai ela é tão eu!] (...) i don't care if this entry is a mess. if i don't get word form him tomorrow i shall crawl into a hole and die!!!!!!!!!!!

[01 de janeiro de 1913] (the first time i've written "1913". seems so funny) now full speed ahead! - over the never-sailed sea of this new year, 1913, with your hands behind you, - "which hand will i have?"? please, the right one!

[10 de janeiro de 1913] some people think i'm going to be a great poet, and i'm going to be sent to college so that i may have a change to be great, - but i don't know - i'm afraid - afraid i'm too - too little, i guess, to be very much, after all. i'm not joking a bit. i don't want to disappoint people and perhaps tomorrow i won't feel like this, but it seems to be that all i am really good for is to love you, - and that doesn't do any good. perhaps i could be a great poet or nearer to it - if i had you and you wanted me to. i have some big thoughts.

[08 de fevereiro de 1913 - mencionando a sara teasdale ♡] sara teasdale! inviting me to "take a tea" with her!

[15 de fevereiro de 1913 - mencionando a sara teasdale ♡] went down to martha washington hotel to meet sara teasdale. had dinner there after riding up and down fifth avenue on a bustop, the most exhilarating sport ever head of. she gave me a copy of her "helen of troy and other poems"

[20 de fevereiro de 1913] well, well! i never cry at the theatre. it seems to me that i feel things far too deeply, too deep down in my heart, to splash on top!

[10 de março de 1913] "i'll keep a little tavern bellow the high hill's crest / wherein all gray-eyed people may set them down to rest"

[21 de março de 1913 - mencionando a sara teasdale ♡] sara up to dinner. (it sounds lovely not to say "miss teasdale". and i don't have to any more because we're really friends). we had a wonderful time.

[23 de março de 1913] i honestly believe, as truly as i believe in fairies, that angels always join in that. they always sing the "hallelujahs". i'm sure of it.

[27 de março de 1913] caught in the rain today. rain is so unbecoming unless one appears to be enjoying oneself in it! how blissfully i paddled along! sans rubbers, sans umbrella, sans friend, sans everything.

[01 de abril de 1913] slept this afternoon. it's wonderful to be able to lie right down any time and go to sleep like a baby. that's the only thing that keeps me alive.

[30 de abril de 1913] a little box from home. norma sent it. a little bag of salted peanuts, a tiny box of chocolates, one round apple, and a bunch of may flowers. i hope i shall never be so old but that reading this paragraph will make me want to cry. that little box was a wonderful thing.

[2 de junho de 1913] didn't rest much last night. came down to breakfast looking like a ghost. felt like dying and couldn't do anything. he felt like dying and couldn't do anything. so we went of into the woods together.

[não há registros de diários sendo mantidos durante os anos seguintes, o que é uma pena; eu gostaria muito de ler sobre a experiência dela na universidade]

[18 de janeiro de 1920] (it has begun to rain in earnest now; it is pouring. i see it shine on the iron fleur-de-lys of the grating outside my window & hear it splashing in the little court)

[19 de janeiro de 1920 - ♡ ] last night i walked along the banks of the seine alone, close, close down by the parapet, where people drown themselves. there was a high wind blowing, dripping rain. the river, flowing broken form around the piles of the bridge, in the high wind, is crumpled on the surface like dead leaves. and in flowing it makes a sound not like a river, but like a forest, a leafy rustling, an articulate sound, ancient and mysterious to the ear. after all, it is a french river, and it is to be expected it would speak in a different tongue. after all, it is a french river. it speaks no english. with the best of my french, i cannot catch what it is saying. i think it speaks an old french yet, that is why. (...) i doubt if all these modern parisians understand it much better than i do. one thing is certain, they do not give it so much of thought.

[outubro de 1921 - ♡ ] let us tear apart the tough thick skin of the ripe pomegranate & split the seedy fruit in two - ah, how wet & good to be love-parched mouth - how cool on the naked breast and knees drips now the clear bright blood of the crushed pomegranate - suck up & split - wipe the wet mouth & chin on the warm smooth shoulder - there are six pomegranates in this basket - shall we eat them all - hurl now the empty shells in the corner of the room - ah, how stained & drenched we are! - let the wind dry us if it will.

[10 de março de 1927] this is really the first day of spring. all i wanted to do was sit in the sun. and ugin & the dogs & the cat & the cows & the horses & the pigs all felt the same.

[10 de agosto de 1927] there is something that squeaks, up in the roof of the summer-house. we don't know whether it is baby mice, or farieis.