A man gazing at the stars is proverbially at the mercy of the puddles in the road.

The truly great rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, nor seek the conformation of the world.

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.

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

A single soul is richer than all the worlds.

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

Trees are your best antiques