He who considers himself a paragon of wisdom is sure to commit some superlatively stupid act.

Love knows no winter; no, no! It is, and remains the sign of spring.

He is not dead who departs from life with a high and noble fame; but he is dead, even while living, whose brow is branded with infamy.

Time passes cold and indifferent over us; it knows nothing of our joys or sorrows; it leads us with ice-cold hand deeper and deeper into the labyrinth.

He who loves not flowers, has lost all love and fear of God.

He who considers himself a paragon of wisdom is sure to commit some superlatively stupid act.

Who cannot but see oftentimes how strange the threads of our destiny run? Oft it is only for a moment the favorable instant is presented. We miss it, and months and years are lost.