These flowers, which were splendid and sprightly, waking in the dawn of the morning, in the evening will be a pitiful frivolity, sleeping in the cold night's arms.

Great events have sent before them their announcements.

Dreams are rough copies of the waking soul Yet uncorrected of the higher will, So that men sometimes in their dreams confess An unsuspected, or forgotten, self; -Since Dreaming, Madness, Passion, are akin In missing each that salutory rein Of reason, and the grinding will of man.

In this treacherous world Nothing is the truth nor a lie. Everything depends on the color Of the crystal through which one sees it

The dower of great beauty has always been misfortune, since happiness and beauty do not agree together.

When love is not madness, it is not love.

At the point when affection is not frenzy, it is not adore.