I was born upon thy bank, river, My blood flows in thy stream, And thou meanderest forever, At the bottom of my dream.

I come to my solitary woodland walk as the homesick go home.

The nonchalance and dolce-far-niente air of nature and society hint at infinite periods in the progress of mankind.

Summer passes into autumn in some unimaginable point of time, like the turning of a leaf.

Instead of the scream of a fish hawk scaring the fishes, is heard the whistle of the steam-engine, arousing a country to its progress.

The fibers of all things have their tension and are strained like the strings of an instrument.

Men are in the main alike, but they were made several in order that they might be various. If a low use is to be served, one man will do nearly quite as well as another; if a high one, individual excellence is to be regarded.