Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.

With what cracked pitchers go we to deep wells In this world!

What we call Life is a condition of the soul. And the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement.

The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and pinks, held out in the smoke, like stars by day.

I, who had had my heart full for hours, took advantage of an early moment of solitude, to cry in it very bitterly. Suddenly a little hairy head thrust itself from behind my pillow into my face, rubbing its ears and nose against me in a responsive agitation, and drying the tears as they came.

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.

God Himself is the best Poet, And the Real is His song.