Poetry is a whim of Nature in her lighter moods; it requires nothing but its own madness and, lacking that, it becomes a soundless cymbal, a belfry without a bell.

Life is a toy made of glass; it appears to be of inestimable price, but in reality it is very cheap.

A high heart ought to bear calamities and not flee them, since in bearing them appears the grandeur of the mind and in fleeing them the cowardice of the heart.

Even when I'm railed at, I get my quota of renown.

Why should the eyes be denied what delights them most?

The best thing for a man to do is to be born and, being born, to die at once.

Let us love winter, for it is the spring of genius.