Gray hairs seem to my fancy like the soft light of the moon, silvering over the evening of life.
Memory, wit, fancy, acuteness, cannot grow young again in old age, but the heart can.
Never part without loving words to think of during your absence. It may be that you will not meet again in this life.
It is not great, but little good-haps that make up happiness.
God is an unutterable sigh, planted in the depths of the soul.
How narrow our souls become when absorbed in any present good or ill! It is only the thought of the future that makes them great.