Youth is the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is the end of the world. But the power of hoping through everything, the knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration comes to the middle-aged.

As winter strips the leaves from around us, so that we may see the distant regions they formerly concealed, so old age takes away our enjoyments only to enlarge the prospect of the coming eternity.

The woman who tells her age is either too young to have anything to lose or too old to have anything to gain.

One of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax.

The older the fiddler, the sweeter the tune.

The closing years of life are like the end of a masquerade party, when the masks are dropped.

Old age has its pleasures, which, though different, are not less than the pleasures of youth.

Growing old is no more than a bad habit which a busy man has no time to form.

If the young knew and the old could, there is nothing that couldn't be done.

As life runs on, the road grows strange with faces new -- and near the end. The milestones into headstones change, Neath every one a friend.