Our birthdays are feathers in the broad wing of time.
The heart needs not for its heaven much space, nor many stars therein, if only the star of love has arisen.
Memory, wit, fancy, acuteness, cannot grow young again in old age, but the heart can.
Every man has a rainy corner of his life whence comes foul weather which follows him.
It is not the end of joy that makes old age so sad, but the end of hope.
He thought of the mouldering child, which laid its withered thin arms around his soul, as if it were his own, and to whom Death had given as much as a god gave to Endymion, — sleep, eternal youth, and immortality.