Nature has from the first expanded the minute blossoms of the forest only toward the heavens, above men's heads and unobserved bythem. We see only the flowers that are under our feet in the meadows.

It requires a direct dispensation from Heaven to become a walker.

All men want, not something to do with, but something to do, or rather something to be.

Surely joy is the condition of life.

Here or nowhere is our heaven.

In solitude especialy do we begin to appreciate the advantage of living with someone who can think.

Let us not underrate the value of a fact; it will one day flower into a truth.