At present, man applies to nature but half his force. He works on the world with his understanding alone. He lives in it, and masters it by a penny-wisdom; and he that works most in it, is but a half-man, and whilst his arms are strong and his digestion good, his mind is imbruted, and he is a selfish savage.

An action is the perfection and publication of thought.

Solitary converse with nature; for thence are ejaculated sweet and dreadful words never uttered in libraries. Ah! the spring days, the summer dawns, and October woods!

My hours are peaceful centuries.

For each thorn, there's a rosebud... For each twilight - a dawn... For each trial - the strength to carry on, For each storm cloud - a rainbow... For each shadow - the sun... For each parting - sweet memories when sorrow is done.

Consideration is the soil in which wisdom may be expected to grow, and strength be given to every up-springing plant of duty.

The mass of men worry themselves into nameless graves while here and there a great unselfish soul forgets himself into immortality.