Each has his own happiness in his hands, as the artist handles the rude clay he seeks to reshape it into a figure; yet it is the same with this art as with all others: only the capacity for it is innate; the art itself must be learned and painstakingly practiced.

The question "From where does the poet get it?" addresses only the what, nobody learns anything about the how when asking that question.

A stated truth loses its grace, but a repeated error appears insipid and ridiculous.

Look closely at those who patronize you. Half are unfeeling, half untaught.

We cannot too soon convince ourselves how easily we may be dispensed with in the world. What important personages we imagine ourselves to be! We think that we alone are the life of the circle in which we move; in our absence, we fancy that life, existence, breath will come to a general pause, and, alas, the gap which we leave is scarcely perceptible, so quickly is it filled again; nay, it is often the place, if not of something better, at least for something more agreeable.

We can't form our children on our own concepts; we must take them and love them as God gives them to us.

I do not speak of what I cannot praise.