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True poets, like great artists, have scarcely any childhood, and no old age.

Sophie Swetchine

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Sophie Swetchine
Age: 74 †
Born: 1782
Born: November 22
Died: 1857
Died: September 10
Diarist
Lady-In-Waiting
Salonnière
Writer
Moscow
Russian SFSR
Sofia Petrovna Soymonova
Madame Swetchine
Swetchine
Anne Sophie Swetchine
Childhood
Poet
Poetry
Age
Artist
True
Scarcely
Great
Poets
Like
Artists

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Feeling loves a subdued light.
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We do not judge men by what they are in themselves, but by what they are relatively to us.
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It would seem that by our sorrows only are we called to a knowledge of the Infinite. Are we happy? The limits of life constrain us on all sides.
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Old age is the night of life, as night is the old age of the day. Still, night is full of magnificence and, for many, it is more brilliant than the day.
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If we look closely at this earth, where God seems so utterly forgotten, we shall find that it is He, after all, who commands the most fidelity and the most love.
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Indifferent souls never part. Impassioned souls part, and return to one another, because they can do no better.
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When fresh sorrows have caused us to take some steps in the right way, we may not complain. We have invested in a life annuity, but the income remains.
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Men are always invoking justice yet it is justice which should make them tremble.
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Indulgence is lovely in the sinless toleration, adorable in the pious and believing heart.
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Death is the justification of all the ways of the Christian, the last end of all his sacrifices, the touch of the Great Master which completes the picture.
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Love sometimes elevates, creates new qualities, suspends the working of evil inclinations but only for a day. Love, then, is an Oriental despot, whose glance lifts a slave from the dust, and then consigns him to it again.
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Real sorrow is almost as difficult to discover as real poverty. An instinctive delicacy hides the rays of the one and the wounds of the other.
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Youth should be a savings bank.
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Pride dries the tears of anger and vexation humility, those of grief. The one is indignant that we should suffer the other calms us by the reminder that we deserve nothing else.
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The mind wears the colors of the soul, as a valet those of his master.
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Kindness causes us to learn, and to forget, many things.
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In retirement, the passage of time seems accelerated. Nothing warns us of its flight. It is a wave which never murmurs, because there is no obstacle to its flow.
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We are all of us, in this world, more or less like St. January, whom the inhabitants of Naples worship one day, and pelt with baked apples the next.
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Loving souls are like paupers. They live on what is given them.
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Silence is like nightfall. Objects are lost in it insensibly.
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