It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o’er our fears, are all with thee – are all with thee!

Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.

If the mind, that rules the body, ever so far forgets itself as to trample on its slave, the slave is never generous enough to forgive the injury, but will rise and smite the oppressor.

It has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and drenched by the rain of life.

The strength of criticism lies in the weakness of the thing criticized.

In old age our bodies are worn-out instruments, on which the soul tries in vain to play the melodies of youth. But because the instrument has lost its strings, or is out of tune, it does not follow that the musician has lost his skill.