We love in others what we lack ourselves, and would be everything but what we are.

Given the books of a man, it is not difficult, I think, to detect therein the personality of the man, and the station in life to which he was born.

There is no hope the future will but turn the old sand in the falling glass of time.

There are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.

We grow like flowers, and bear desire, the odor of the human flowers.

We love in others what we lack ourselves, and would be everything but what we are.

Children are the keys of Paradise. They alone are good and wise, because their thoughts, their very lives are prayer.