Our vanity is the constant enemy of our dignity.
True poets, like great artists, have scarcely any childhood, and no old age.
Let our lives be pure as snowfields, where our steps leave a mark but no stain.
Let us shun everything, which might tend to efface the primitive lineaments of our individuality. Let us reflect that each one of us is a thought of God.
We are always looking into the future, but we see only the past.
Truth only is prolific. Error, sterile in itself, produces only by means of the portion of truth which it contains. It may have offspring, but the life which it gives, like that of the hybrid races, cannot be transmitted.