There's not a nook within this solemn pass/ But were an apt confessional for one/ Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,/ That life is but a tale of morning grass/ Withered at eve.

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,One after one; the sound of rain, and beesMurmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lieSleepless!

Through the vulgar error of undervaluing what is common, we are apt indeed to pass these by as of little worth. But as in the outward creation, so in the soul, the common is the most precious.

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

The good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket

One swallow does not make a summer