I'm a great poet. I don't put my poems on paper: they consist of actions and feelings.

Men die in despair, while spirits die in ecstasy.

Passions are no more forgiving than human laws and they reason more justly. Are they not based on a conscience of their own, infallible as an instinct?

A careful observation of Nature will disclose pleasantries of superb irony. She has for instance placed toads close to flowers.

To live in the presence of great truths and eternal laws, to be led by permanent ideals - that is what keeps a man patient when the world ignores him, and calm and unspoiled when the world praises him.

When Religion and Royalty are swept away, the people will attack the great, and after the great, they will fall upon the rich.

But does not happiness come from the soul within?