God often visits us, but most of the time we are not at home.
Generosity is more charitable than wealth.
Friendship is the ideal; friends are the reality; reality always remains far apart from the ideal.
Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.
We call that person who has lost his father, an orphan; and a widower that man who has lost his wife. But that man who has known the immense unhappiness of losing a friend, by what name do we call him? Here every language is silent and holds its peace in impotence.
What is experience? A poor little hut constructed from the ruins of the palace of gold and marble called our illusions.