I sing, not to hear the echo repeat, a shade fainter, my song! I think of light and not of glory! Singing is my fashion of waging war and bearing witness. And if my song is the proudest of songs, it is that I sing clearly to make the day rise clear!

My soul, be satisfied with flowers, with fruit, with weeds even; but gather them in the one garden you may call your own.

And if kisses in these words could travel too, Madam, you'd read this letter with your lips.

ROXANE: Live, for I love you! CYRANO: No, In fairy tales When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says 'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast-- But I remain the same, up to the last! ROXANE: I have marred your life--I, I! CYRANO: You blessed my life! Never on me had rested woman's love. My mother even could not find me fair: I had no sister; and, when grown a man, I feared the mistress who would mock at me. But I have had your friendship--grace to you A woman's charm has passed across my path.

A pessimist is a man who tells the truth prematurely.

It is at night that faith in light is admirable.

A kiss is a rosy dot placed on the "i" in loving.