The swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.

It is only kindred griefs that draw forth our tears, and each weeps really for himself.

I will not say that women have no character; rather, they have a new one every day.

I have a most peaceable disposition. My desires are for a modest hut, a thatched roof, but a good bed, good food, very fresh milk and butter, flowers in front of my window and a few pretty trees by my door. And should the good Lord wish to make me really happy, he will allow me the pleasure of seeing about six or seven of my enemies hanged upon those trees.

Silence is the essential condition of happiness.

Like a great poet, Nature knows how to produce the greatest effects with the most limited means.

The stones here speak to me, and I know their mute language. Also, they seem deeply to feel what I think. So a broken column of the old Roman times, an old tower of Lombardy, a weather- beaten Gothic piece of a pillar understands me well. But I am a ruin myself, wandering among ruins.