We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
Pampered vanity is a better thing perhaps than starved pride.
I have some friends, some honest friends, and honest friends are few; My pipe of briar, my open fire, A book that’s not too new.
And if they haven’t got poetry in them, there’s nothing you can do that will produce it.
How blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver in comparison with those of guilt.
Everything is sweetened by risk.
His locked, lettered, braw brass collar, Shewed him the gentleman and scholar.
I am not a modern man, I am just a wee old fashioned one.
Silence is the element in which great things fashion themselves together; that at length they may emerge, full-formed and majestic, into the delight of life, which they are thenceforth to rule.
None of us will ever accomplish anything excellent or commanding except when he listens to this whisper which is heard by him alone.