I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.

Christmas is the day that holds all time together.

Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.

Winter does not work only on a broad scale; he is careful in trifles.

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.

And in any case, to the old man, when the world becomes trite, the triteness arises not so much from a cessation as from a transference of interest. What is taken from this world is given to the next. The glory is in the east in the morning, it is in the west in the afternoon, and when it is dark the splendour is irradiating the realm of the under-world. He would only follow.

The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.