The holiest of all holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; the secret anniversaries of the heart.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (February 27, 1807 - March 24, 1882)
~ Henry David Thoreau (July 12, 1817 - May 06, 1862)
Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know. I admire lolling on a lawn by a water-lilied pond to eat white currants and see goldfish: and go to the fair in the evening if I'm good. There is not hope for that --one is sure to get into some mess before evening.
~ John Keats (October 31, 1795 - February 23, 1821)