The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.

That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.

Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

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

The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.