Every year strips us of at least one vain expectation, and teaches us to reckon some solid good in its stead.

It will never rain roses: when we want to have more roses we must plant more trees.

You know nothing about Hope, that immortal, delicious maiden forever courted forever propitious, whom fools have called deceitful, as if it were Hope that carried the cup of disappointment, whereas it is her deadly enemy, Certainty, whom she only es

I have a knack of hoping, which is as good as an estate.

The world is full of hopeful analogies and handsome, dubious eggs, called possibilities.

Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. Even with no motive to be false, it is very hard to say the exact truth.

I think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with music.