Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.

This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.

His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.

There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.

And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.

Love betters what is best

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.