A mother's arms are made of tenderness and children sleep soundly in them.
He who despairs is wrong.
Love is a portion of the soul itself, and it is of the same nature as the celestial breathing of the atmosphere of paradise.
I write with one hand, but I fight with both.
She worked in order to live, and presently fell in love, also in order to live, for the heart, too, has its hunger.
As with stomachs, we should pity minds that do not eat.