A man doesn’t plant a tree for himself. He plants it for posterity.
Books are a finer world within the world.
The dead keep their secrets, and in a while we shall be as wise as they – and as taciturn.
The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other.
Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
The world is not so much in need of new thoughts as that when thought grows old and worn with usage it should, like current coin, be called in, and, from the mint of genius, reissued fresh and new.
The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
If you do your fair day’s work, you are certain to get your fair day’s wage – in praise or pudding, whichever happens to suit your taste.
If you wish to preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness.