I have learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, not the applauding thunder at its heels that men call fame.
Winter does not work only on a broad scale; he is careful in trifles.
Seated in my library at night, and looking on the silent faces of my books, I am occasionally visited by a strange sense of the supernatural.
A poem round and perfect as a star.
A man does not plant a tree for himself; he plants it for posterity.
The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other.