“The heights charm us, but the steps do not; with the mountain in our view we love to walk the plains.”

“That is the true season of love, when we believe that we alone can love, that no one could ever have loved so before us, and that no one will love in the same way as us.”

“This is the true measure of love: when we believe that we alone can love, that no one could ever have loved so before us, and that no one will ever love in the same way after us.”

“My grandmother used to tell us a story of a mountain of loadstone. When any vessels came near it, they were instantly deprived of their ironwork: the nails flew to the mountain, and the unhappy crew perished amidst the disjointed planks.”

“Did I not feel charmed at those truly genuine expressions of nature, which, though but little mirthful in reality, so often amused us?”

“For we are so constituted by nature, that we are ever prone to compare ourselves with others; and our happiness or misery depends very much on the objects and persons around us. On this account, nothing is more dangerous than solitude: there our imagination, always disposed to rise, taking a new flight on the wings of fancy, pictures to us a chain of beings of whom we seem the most inferior.”

“Sweet moonlight, shining full and clear,Why do you light my torture here?How often have you seen me toil,Burning last drops of midnight oil.On books and papers as I read,My friend, your mournful light you shed.If only I could flee this denAnd walk the mountain-tops again,Through moonlit meadows make my way,In mountain caves with spirits play -Released from learning's musty cell,Your healing dew would make me well!”