Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.

A thrumming of piano-strings beyond the gardens and through the elms. At length the melody steals into my being. I know not when it began to occupy me. By some fortunate coincidence of thought or circumstance I am attuned to the universe, I am fitted to hear, my being moves in a sphere of melody, my fancy and imagination are excited to an inconceivable degree. This is no longer the dull earth on which I stood.

We soon get through with nature. She excites an expectation which she cannot satisfy.

Good for the body is the work of the body, good for the soul the work of the soul, and good for either the work of the other.

We seem but to linger in manhood to tell the dreams of our childhood, and they vanish out of memory ere we learn the language.

How little do the most wonderful inventions of modern times detain us. They insult nature. Every machine, or particular application, seems a slight outrage against universal laws.

What we need to know in any case is very simple.