That tree is very old, but I never saw prettier blossoms on it than it now bears. That tree grows new wood each year. Like that apple tree, I try to grow a new little wood each year.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all.

There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.

No man is so poor as to have nothing worth giving.

Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.

Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.