The warm green of the grass, sprinkled with flowers of many hues, is a carpet whereon we walk with noiseless tread.

I would dearly love to take up the brush again, but I realize that I am an old man and that I cannot set the world afire.

No one should have to grieve alone.

The perfume of the flowers and of the bay tree are wafted on high, like incense. The birds sing sweet songs of praise to their Creator. In the tops of the trees, the soughing of the wind is like the hushed prayers of the multitude in some vast cathedral. Here the heart of man becomes impressionable.