Trees are your best antiques.
Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of human life.
We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
In life there is nothing more unexpected and surprising than the arrivals and departures of pleasure. If we find it in one place to-day, it is vain to seek it there to-morrow. You can not lay a trap for it.
In winter, when the dismal rain comes down in slanting lines, and wind, that grand old harper, smote his thunder-harp of pines.
Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
Looking forward into an empty year strikes one with a certain awe, because one finds therein no recognition. The years behind have a friendly aspect, and they are warmed by the fires we have kindled, and all their echoes are the echoes of our own voi.