When the measured dance of the hours brings back the happy smile of spring, the buried dead is born again in the life-glance of the sun. The germs which perished to the eye within the cold breast of the earth spring up with joy in the bright realm of day.

A childlike mind in its simplicity practises that science of good to which the wise may be blind.

When the gods were more manlike, Men were more godlike.

The storm is master. Man, as a ball, is tossed twixt winds and billows.

No doubt the artist is the child of his time; but woe to him if he is also its disciple, or even its favorite.

Revenge is barren of itself: it is the dreadful food it feeds on; its delight is murder, and its end is despair.

One drop of hatred left in the cup of joy turns the most blissful draught into poison.