Every life has its years in which one progresses as on a tedious and dusty street of poplars, without caring to know where he is.

I was so astonished that another had penetrated so deeply into the secrets of my soul, and that he knew what I did not know myself, that when I recovered from it he had already been long upon the street.

How mankind defers from day to day the best it can do, and the most beautiful things it can enjoy, without thinking that every day may be the last one, and that lost time is lost eternity!

A flower cannot blossom without sunshine, and man cannot live without love.

Is it sin, which makes the worm a chrysalis, and the chrysalis a butterfly, and the butterfly dust?

Of these years nought remains in memory but the sad feeling that we have advanced and only grown older.