The end we aim at must be known, before the way can be made.
Music is moonlight in the gloomy night of life.
A sky full of silent suns.
As winter strips the leaves from around us, so that we may see the distant regions they formerly concealed, so old age takes away our enjoyments only to enlarge the prospect of the coming eternity.
Humankind's chief fault is that they have so many small ones.
Sorrows are like thunderclouds, in the distance they look black, over our heads scarcely gray.