The object of love expands and grows before us to eternity, until it includes all that is lovely, and we become all that can love.

Perfect alchemists I keep who can transmute substances without end, and thus the corner of my garden is an inexhaustible treasure-chest. Here you can dig, not gold, but the value which gold merely represents; and there is no Signor Blitz about it.

We are made happy when reason can discover no occasion for it. The memory of some past moments is more persuasive than the experience of present ones. There have been visions of such breadth and brightness that these motes were invisible in their light.

Our sadness is not sad, but our cheap joys.

On tops of mountains, as everywhere to hopeful souls, it is always morning.

There is one consolation in being sick; and that is the possibility that you may recover to a better state than you were ever in before.

The most primitive places left with us are the swamps, where the spruce still grows shaggy with usnea.