A face which is always serene possesses a mysterious and powerful attraction: sad hearts come to it as to the sun to warm themselves again.

Lofty mountains are full of springs; great hearts are full of tears.

Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.

There is a slowness in affairs which ripens them, and a slowness which rots them.

Science is for those who learn; poetry, for those who know.

The chief cause of our misery is less the violence of our passions than the feebleness of our virtues.

Literature was formerly an art and finance a trade; today it is the reverse.