We are pantheists when we study nature, polytheists when we write poetry, monotheists in our morality.

So then the year is repeating its old story again. We are come once more, thank God! to its most charming chapter. The violets and the Mayflowers are as its inscriptions or vignettes. It always makes a pleasant impression on us, when we open again at these pages of the book of life.

The soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone.

Idea and experience will never coincide in the center; only through art and action are they united.

Errors belong to libraries; truth, to the human mind.

A life without love, without the presence of the beloved, is nothing but a mere magic-lantern show. We draw out slide after slide, swiftly tiring of each, and pushing it back to make haste for the next.

A correct answer is like an affectionate kiss.