Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.
He was of an impressible nature, and lived a great deal in other people's opinions and feelings concerning himself.
Would not love see returning penitence afar off, and fall on its neck and kiss it?
The finest language is mostly made up of simple unimposing words.
Those who trust us educate us.
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.