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

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.

There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.

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.

A poem round and perfect as a star.

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

Everything is sweetened by risk.