Time passes cold and indifferent over us; it knows nothing of our joys or sorrows; it leads us with ice-cold hand deeper and deeper into the labyrinth.
He who considers himself a paragon of wisdom is sure to commit some superlatively stupid act.
He is not dead who departs from life with a high and noble fame; but he is dead, even while living, whose brow is branded with infamy.
Love knows no winter; no, no! It is, and remains the sign of spring.
He who does not love flowers has lost all love and fear of God.
The noble man is only God's image.
Who cannot but see oftentimes how strange the threads of our destiny run? Oft it is only for a moment the favorable instant is presented. We miss it, and months and years are lost.
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