Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.
At first we hope too much and later on, not enough.
As long as we love, we lend to the beloved object qualities of mind and heart which we deprive him of when the day of misunderstanding arrives.
When unhappy, one doubts everything when happy one doubts nothing.
In youth one has tears without grief; in age, griefs without tears
We distrust our heart too much, and our head not enough.