A man does not plant a tree for himself; he plants it for posterity.

Every day travels toward death; the last only arrives at it.

The great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.

If we were to live here always, with no other care than how to feed, clothe, and house ourselves, life would be a very sorry business. It is immeasurably heightened by the solemnity of death.

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

Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.

The truly great rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, nor seek the conformation of the world.