Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery


I dreamed about a place where cherry blossoms grew wild, where prayers became poetry and ethereal green fields spilled into the sparkling blue sea. A girl lived there—Anne of Green Gables—a dreamy gaze of a soul who had been wandering afar, star-led. She walked, rowed, berried, and dreamed to her heart's content. She listened to the trees talk in their sleep. She recklessly loved and sweetly imagined and earnestly vowed and tenderly wept, and she carried with her more color and life and softness to everyone she met. She turned hopes to dreams. She spoke forgotten places into new names, more lovely than they once were. And when I woke, I found I didn't want to talk. It's nicer to think dear, pretty thoughts and keep them in one's heart, like treasures. Dreams don't often come true, do they? Wouldn't it be nice if they did?