If a man is worth knowing at all, he is worth knowing well.

The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other.

A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.

In my garden I spend my days, in my library I spend my nights. My interests are divided between my geraniums and my books. With the flower I am in the present; with the book I am in the past.

Yet through all, we know this tangled skein is in the hands of One, Who sees the end from the beginning: He shall unravel all.

In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.

My friend is not perfect-no more than I am-and so we suit each other admirable.