An author departs; he does not die.

Many true words are spoken in jest.

Not perhaps until later life, until the follies, passions, and selfishness of youth have died out, do we . . . recognize the the inestimable blessing, the responsibility awful as sweet, of possessing or of being a friend.

the worst times come to an end if you can only wait long enough.

Keep what is worth keeping and with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.

Nothing but a speck we seem In the waste of waters round, Floating, floating like a dream, Outward bound.

An author departs; he does not die.