The years seem to rush by now, and I think of death as a fast approaching end of a journey-double and treble reason for loving as well as working while it is day.

We hand folks over to God's mercy, and show none ourselves.

Awful Night! Ancestral mystery of mysteries.

The beauty of a lovely woman is like music.

Oh may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence.

It is only a poor sort of happiness that could ever come by caring very much about our own pleasures. We can only have the highest happiness such as goes along with being a great man, by having wide thoughts and much feeling for the rest of the world as well as ourselves.

Childhood has no forebodings; but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.