True poets, like great artists, have scarcely any childhood, and no old age.

As we advance in life the circle of our pains enlarges, while that of our pleasures contracts.

Attention is a silent and perpetual flattery.

Might we not say to the confused voices which sometimes arise from the depths of our being: "Ladies, be so kind as to speak only four at a time?"

We reform others unconsciously when we walk uprightly.

In youth, grief comes with a rush and overflow, but it dries up, too, like the torrent. In the winter of life it remains a miserable pool, resisting all evaporation.

What I value most next to eternity is time.