Sorrows are like thunderclouds, in the distance they look black, over our heads scarcely gray.

Humankind's chief fault is that they have so many small ones.

He thought of the mouldering child, which laid its withered thin arms around his soul, as if it were his own, and to whom Death had given as much as a god gave to Endymion, — sleep, eternal youth, and immortality.

Every friend is to the other a sun, and a sunflower also. He attracts and follows.

There are souls in this world which have the gift of finding joy everywhere and of leaving it behind them when they go.

Nothing is more beautiful than cheerfulness in an old face.

The burden of suffering seems a tombstone hung about our necks, while in reality it is only the weight which is necessary to keep down the diver while he is hunting for pearls.