My friend is not perfect-no more than I am-and so we suit each other admirable.
A thought may be very commendable as a thought, but I value it chiefly as a window through which I can obtain insight on the thinker.
In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.
Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.