God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.

An old novel has a history of its own.

In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October, when the trees are bare to the mild heavens, and the red leaves bestrew the road, and you can feel the breath of winter, morning and evening - no days so calm, so tenderly solemn, and with such a reverent meekness in the air.

Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.

We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

Nature never quite goes along with us. She is somber at weddings, sunny at funerals, and she frowns on ninety-nine out of a hundred picnics.

My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.