My sole defense against the natural horror which death inspires is to love beyond it.
True poets, like great artists, have scarcely any childhood, and no old age.
Old age is not one of the beauties of creation, but it is one of its harmonies.
The mind wears the colors of the soul, as a valet those of his master.
The Christian's God is a God of metamorphoses. You cast grief into his bosom: you draw thence, peace. You cast in despair: 'tis hope that rises to the surface. It is a sinner whose heart he moves. It is a saint who returns him thanks.
Friendship is like those ancient altars where the unhappy, and even the guilty, found a sure asylum.