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

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

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

In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October, when the trees are bare to the mild heavens, and the red leaves bestrew the road, and you can feel the breath of winter, morning and evening - no days so calm, so tenderly solemn, and with such a reverent meekness in the air.

My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.

Christmas is the day that holds all time together.

My garden, with its silence and pulses of fragrance that come and go on the airy undulations, affects me like sweet music. Care stops at the gates, and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.