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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
True
Scarcely
Great
Poets
Like
Artists
Childhood
Poet
Poetry
Age
Artist

More quotes by Sophie Swetchine

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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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The chains which cramp us most are those which weigh on us least.
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Providence has hidden a charm in difficult undertakings, which is appreciated only by those who dare to grapple with them.
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Time is the shower of Danae each drop is golden.
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Loving souls are like paupers. They live on what is given them.
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We recognize the action of God in great things: we exclude it in small. We forget that the Lord of eternity is also the Lord of the hour.
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By becoming unhappy, we sometimes learn how to be less so.
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The most culpable of the excesses of Liberty is the harm she does herself.
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He who has ceased to enjoy his friend's superiority has ceased to love him.
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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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To have ideas is to gather flowers to think is to weave them into garlands.
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To love deeply in one direction makes us more loving in all others.
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Men are always invoking justice yet it is justice which should make them tremble.
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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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Suspicion has its dupes, as well as credulity.
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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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The very might of the human intellect reveals its limits.
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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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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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The mind wears the colors of the soul, as a valet those of his master.
Sophie Swetchine