The music of the far-away summer flutters around the Autumn seeking its former nest.

Men are cruel, but Man is kind.

The soil in return for her service keeps the tree tied to her, the sky asks nothing and leaves it free.

Power said to the world, "You are mine." The world kept it prisoner on her throne. Love said to the world, "I am thine." The world gave it the freedom of her house.

The birds looked upon me as nothing but a man, quite a trifling creature without wings-and they would have nothing to do with me. Were it not so I would build a small cabin for myself among their crowd of nests and pass my days counting the sea waves.

It is the docile who achieve the most impossible things in this world.

The progress of our soul is like a perfect poem. It has an infinite idea which, once realised, makes all movements full of meaning and joy.