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Again, in taking away our friends, death does not take them away utterly, but leaves behind a mocking, tragical, and soon intolerable residue, which must be hurriedly concealed.

Marriage is terrifying, but so is a cold and forlorn old age.

Extreme busyness, whether at school or college, kirk or market, is a symptom of deficient vitality

Now, to be properly enjoyed, a walking tour should be gone upon alone.

In the course of time, we grow to love things we hated and hate things we loved.

All who have meant good work with their whole hearts, have done good work, although they may die before they have the time to sign it.

Love should run out to meet love with open arms.

Falling in love is the one illogical adventure, the one thing of which we are tempted to think as supernatural, in our trite and reasonable world.

Indeed, the ideal story is that of two people who go into love step for step, with a fluttered consciousness, like a pair of children venturing together into a dark room.

The body is a house of many windows: there we all sit, showing ourselves and crying on the passers-by to come and love us.

The very flexibility and ease which make men's friendships so agreeable while they endure, make them the easier to destroy and forget.

The length of man's life, which is endless to the brave and busy, is scorned by his ambitious thought.

The powers and the ground of friendship is a mystery; but, looking back, I can discern that, in part, we loved the thing he was, for some shadow of what he was to be.

Before those who loved him, his memory shines like a reproach; they honour him for silent lessons; they cherish his example; and in what remains before them of their toil, fear to be unworthy of the dead.

Most men, when they repent, oblige their friends to share the bitterness of that repentance.

To believe in immortality is one thing, but it is first needful to believe in life.

It never seems to them that they have served enough; they have a fine impatience of their virtues.

Our frailties are invincible, our virtues barren; the battle goes sore against us to the going down of the sun.

Let it be enough for faith, that the whole creation groans in mortal frailty, strives with unconquerable constancy: Surely not all in vain.

All life that is not merely mechanical is spun out of two strands: seeking for that bird and hearing him.

the true realism, always and everywhere, is that of the poets: to find out where joy resides, and give it a voice far beyond singing

It may consist with perpetual failure, and find exercise in the continued chase.

There is indeed one element in human destiny that not blindness itself can controvert: whatever else we are intended to do, we are not intended to succeed; failure is the fate allotted.

Gentleness and cheerfulness, these come before all morality; they are the perfect duties.

There is no cutting of the Gordian knots of life; each must be smilingly unravelled.