Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I lay me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be: Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.

There is a fellowship more quiet even than solitude, and which, rightly understood, is solitude made perfect.

If you are going to make a book end badly, it must end badly from the beginning.

Restfulness is a quality for cattle; the virtues are all active, life is alert.

I kept always two books in my pocket, one to read, one to write in.

And the true realism, always and everywhere, is that of the poets: to find out where joy resides, and give it a voice far beyond singing. For to miss the joy is to miss all.

There is no music like a little river's . . . It takes the mind out-of-doors . . . and . . . it quiets a man down like saying his prayers.