For the Infinite has sowed his name in the heavens in burning stars, but on the earth He has sowed his name in tender flowers.

Every man regards his own life as the New Year's Eve of time.

Gray hairs seem to my fancy like the soft light of the moon, silvering over the evening of life.

I would rather dwell in the dim fog of superstition than in air rarefied to nothing by the air-pump of unbelief-in which the panting breast expires, vainly and convulsively gasping for breath.

In science the new is an advance; but in morals, as contradicting our inner ideals and historic idols, it is ever a retrogression.

A woman who could always love would never grow old; and the love of mother and wife would often give or preserve many charms if it were not too often combined with parental and conjugal anger. There remains in the face of women who are naturally serene and peaceful, and of those rendered so by religion, an after-spring, and later an after-summer, the reflex of their most beautiful bloom.

Age doesn't matter, unless your cheese.