Loving souls are like paupers. They live on what is given them.

The inventory of my faith for this lower world is soon made out. I believe in Him who made it.

Faith, amid the disorders of a sinful life, is like the lamp burning in an ancient tomb.

Pride dries the tears of anger and vexation; humility, those of grief. The one is indignant that we should suffer; the other calms us by the reminder that we deserve nothing else.

The beings who appear cold, but are only timid, adore where they dare to love.

If it were ever allowable to forget what is due to superiority of rank, it would be when the privileged themselves remember it.

Resignation is, to some extent, spoiled for me by the fact that it is so entirely conformable to the laws of common-sense. I should like just a little more of the supernatural in the practice of my favorite virtue.