But a mermaid has no tears, and therefore she suffers so much more.
My life will be the best illustration of all my work.
Happy domestic life is like a beautiful summer's evening; the heart is filled with peace; and everything around derives a peculiar glory.
When the bird of the heart begins to sing, too often will reason stop up her ears.
To travel is to live.
One cannot quite trust the word of potted flowers," thought the butterfly; "they have too much to do with men.
My life is a lovely story, happy and full of incident.
The naive was only a part of my fairy tales; humour was the real salt in them.
A human life is a story told by God.
Some are created for beauty, and some for use; and there are some which one can do without altogether.
It is the power of thought that gives man power over nature.
If you looked down to the bottom of my soul, you would understand fully the source of my longing and – pity me. Even the open, transparent lake has its unknown depths, which no divers know.
She laughed and danced with the thought of death in her heart.
Well, it's not so easy to give an answer when you ask a stupid question!
Mermaids have no tears, and so they suffer all the more.
Don't ask me how I am! I understand nothing more!
Then she saw a star fall, leaving behind it a bright streak of fire. “Someone is dying,” thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star falls, a soul was going up to God.
A mermaid has not an immortal soul, nor can she obtain one unless she wins the love of a human being. On the power of another hangs her eternal destiny.
Most of the people who will walk after me will be children, so make the beat keep time with short steps.
Eighty percent of our criminals come from unsympathetic homes.
Every time a good child dies, an angel of God comes down to earth. He takes the child in his arms, spreads out his great white wings, and flies with it all over the places the child loved on earth. The angel plucks a large handful of flowers, and they carry it with them up to God, where the flowers bloom more brightly than they ever did on earth.
Farewell, farewell," said the swallow, with a heavy heart, as he left the warm countries, to fly back into Denmark. There he had a nest over the window of a house in which dwelt the writer of fairy tales. The swallow sang "Tweet, tweet," and from his song came the whole story.
We haven't yet got eyes that can gaze into all the splendour that God has created, but we shall get them one day; and that will be the finest fairy tale of all, for we shall be in it ourselves.
I covet honour in the same way as a miser covets gold.
I only appear to be dead.
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