Ah! The seasons of love roll not backward but onward, downward forever.

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.

God is an unutterable sigh, planted in the depths of the soul.

Nothing is more beautiful than cheerfulness in an old face.

Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out.

Joys are our wings, sorrows our spurs.

The happiness of life consists, like the day, not in single flashes (of light), but in one continuous mild serenity. The most beautiful period of the heart's existence is in this calm equable light, even although it be only moonshine or twilight. Now the mind alone can obtain for us this heavenly cheerfulness and peace.