The heart needs not for its heaven much space, nor many stars therein, if only the star of love has arisen.

Joy descends gently upon us like the evening dew, and does not patter down like a hailstorm.

Despair is the only genuine atheism.

Because the heart beats under a covering of hair, of fur, feathers, or wings, it is, for that reason, to be of no account?

I would rather dwell in the dim fog of superstition than in air rarefied to nothing by the air-pump of unbelief-in which the panting breast expires, vainly and convulsively gasping for breath.

Music is moonlight in the gloomy night of life.

Every man has a rainy corner of his life whence comes foul weather which follows him.