Barbarism recommences by the excess of civilization.
True love is the ripe fruit of a lifetime.
All our tastes are but reminiscences.
Habit with it's iron sinews, clasps us and leads us day by day.
Sad is his lot, who, once at least in his life, has not been a poet.
Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys.