Sentiment is the poetry of the imagination.

Limited in his nature, infinite in his desires, man is a fallen god who remembers the heavens.

Sad is his lot, who, once at least in his life, has not been a poet.

The attractiveness that exists to man in the very helplessness of woman is scarcely realized.

We don't have two hearts, one for animals and one for humans ; we have one heart or we don't have any.

Yet, in these autumn days when Nature expires, Here, in these veiled scenes, I find more attractions; It is a friend's sad goodbye; it is the last smile From lips that death is going to close forever!

Treason, which begins by being cautious, ends by betraying itself.