How earthy old people become --moldy as the grave! Their wisdom smacks of the earth. There is no foretaste of immortality in it. They remind me of earthworms and mole crickets.

The botanist should make interest with the bees if he would know when the flowers open and when they close.

What right have I to grieve, who have not ceased to wonder?

Of a life of luxury the fruit is luxury, whether in agriculture, or commerce, or literature, or art.

It is dry, hazy June weather. We are more of the earth, farther from heaven these days.

Really to see the sun rise or go down every day, so to relate ourselves to a universal fact, would preserve us sane forever.

There is no beginning too small.