There is a slow-growing beauty which only comes to perfection in old age.... I have seen sweeter smiles on a lip of seventy than I ever saw on a lip of seventeen. There is the beauty of youth, and there is also the beauty of holiness—a beauty much more seldom met; and more frequently found in the arm-chair by the fire, with grandchildren around its knee, than in the ball-room or the promenade.

Pleasure has no logic; it never treads in its own footsteps.

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

Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.

Death, which we are accustomed to consider an evil, really acts for us the friendliest part, and takes away the commonplace of existence.

In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.

I have learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, not the applauding thunder at its heels that men call fame.