Winter does not work only on a broad scale; he is careful in trifles.

Thoughts must come naturally, like wild-flowers; they cannot be forced in a hot-bed, even although aided by the leaf-mould of your past.

Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.

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

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.

To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.

Men praise poverty, as the African worships Mumbo Jumbo--from terror of the malign power, and a desire to propitiate at.