Every day travels toward death; the last only arrives at it.
A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.
God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.
In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
Death, which we are accustomed to consider an evil, really acts for us the friendliest part, and takes away the commonplace of existence.
Looking forward into an empty year strikes one with a certain awe, because one finds therein no recognition. The years behind have a friendly aspect, and they are warmed by the fires we have kindled, and all their echoes are the echoes of our own voices.