Emily of New Moon

by L.M. Montgomery

Everybody who has ever lived in the world and could string two rhymes together has written a poem on spring. It is the most be-rhymed subject in the world—and always will be, because it is poetry incarnate itself. You can never be a real poet if you haven’t made at least one poem about spring.

If Aunt Elizabeth had asked her to give up crocheting lace or making molasses tatty, or eating Aunt Laura’s delicious drop cookies, Emily would have done so wholly and cheerfully; though she loved these things. But to give up writing stories—why, Aunt Elizabeth might as well have asked her to give up breathing. Why couldn’t she understand? It seemed so simple and indisputable to Emily.

A certain door of life was shut behind her and could not be re-opened.

If it’s in you to climb you must—there are those who must lift their eyes to the hills—they can’t breathe properly in the valleys.