[R]ight language enlarges the soul as no other power or influence may do. - Alice Meynell

[W]hat is now and then attempted is perhaps "for art's sake." He that saveth his art shall lose it.

Flocks of the memories of the day draw near
The dovecote doors of sleep.

The mothers of all ages are those who have suffered because others suffered; for each of them, self is less sensitive than the sense of her child. Self is not locked up in the maternal heart, there to be cherished, as it is by the egoist, or to be crushed and silenced, as it is by the Saint. In the mother, self is not lost, but loses all its evil by the passionate personal love that distributes it among sons and daughters. Perfect self-less love would perhaps be distributed through the multitude, but a mother is not perfect: nature has so much use for her—separate, family use—that she cannot let her go free from irrational, indispensable partialities and limitings, even injustices, all serving the turn of the race.