Music played at weddings always reminds me of the music played for soldiers before they go into battle.

At noon I feel as though I could devour all the elephants of Hindostan, and then pick my teeth with the spire of Strasburg cathedral; in the evening I become so sentimental that I would fain drink up the Milky Way without reflecting how indigestible I should find the little fixed stars, and by night there is the Devil himself broke loose in my head and no mistake.

I do not know the meaning of my sadness; there is an old fairy tale that I cannot get out of my mind.

Our sweetest hopes rise blooming. And then again are gone, They bloom and fade alternate, And so it goes rolling on. I know it, and it troubles My life, my love, my rest, My heart is wise and witty, And it bleeds within my breast.

God will pardon me. It is His trade.

Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.

In the image of the lion made He kittens small and curious.