One Never Hugs One's Good

There Is A Slow-growing Beauty Which Only Comes To Perfection In Old Age.... I Have Seen Sweeter Smiles On A Lip Of Seventy Than I Ever Saw On A Lip Of Seventeen. There Is The Beauty Of Youth, And There Is Also The Beauty Of Holiness—a Beauty Much More Seldom Met; And More Frequently Found In The Arm-chair By The Fire, With Grandchildren Around Its Knee, Than In The Ball-room Or The Promenade.

My Garden, With Its Silence And Pulses Of Fragrance That Come And Go On The Airy Undulations, Affects Me Like Sweet Music. Care Stops At The Gates, And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.

Pleasure Has No Logic; It Never Treads In Its Own Footsteps.

We Are Never Happy; We Can Only Remember That We Were So Once.

In The Entire Circle Of The Year There Are No Days So Delightful As Those Of A Fine October, When The Trees Are Bare To The Mild Heavens, And The Red Leaves Bestrew The Road, And You Can Feel The Breath Of Winter, Morning And Evening - No Days So Calm, So Tenderly Solemn, And With Such A Reverent Meekness In The Air.