You know one loves the sunset, when one is so sad…

Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her…

I thought that I was rich, with a flower that was unique in all the world; and all I had was a common rose. A common rose…

To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys.

It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eyes.

You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.

Only the children know what they are looking for.

The stars are beautiful, because of a flower that cannot be seen.

All men have the stars, but they are not the same things for different people.

All grown-ups were once children-- although few of them remember it.

"I don‘t believe you!Flowers are weak creatures.They are name. They reassure themselves as best they can.They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons..."

I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little strategems.Flowers are so inconsistent!But I was too young to know how to love her..."

If you succeed in judging yourself rightly,then you are indeed a man of true wisdom."

For, to conceited men, all other men are admirers.

"I myself own a flower,"he continued his conversation with the businessman,"which I water every day.I own three volcanoes,which I clean out every week (for I also clean out the one that is extinct; one never knows).It is of some use to my volcanoes,and it is of some use to my flower, that I own them.But you are of no use to the stars..."

It is only with the heart that one can see rightly;what is essential is invisible to the eye."

"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."

"One only understands the things that one tames,"

But the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart..."

One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets himself be tamed...

It is just as it is with the flower.If you love a flower that lives on a star,it is sweet to look at the sky at night.All the stars are a-bloom with flowers..."

"You know-- my flower...I am responsible for her.And she is so weak!She is so naive!She has four thorns,of no use at all,to protect herself against all the world..."

"You are beautiful, but you are empty,"he went on."One could not die for you.To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you-- the rose that belongs to me.

But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses:because it is she that I have watered;because it is she that I have put under the glass globe;because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen;because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing.Because she is my rose.

But seeds are invisible. They sleep deep in the heart of the earth's darkness, until some one among them is seized with the desire to awaken. Then this little seed will stretch itself and begin-- timidly at first-- to push a charming little sprig inoffensively upward toward the sun.

Well, I must endure the presence of two or three caterpillars if I wish to become acquainted with the butterflies.

"I am drinking," replied the tippler, with a lugubrious air. "Why are you drinking?" demanded the little prince. "So that I may forget," replied the tippler. "Forget what?" inquired the little prince, who already was sorry for him. "Forget that I am shamed," the tippler confessed, hanging his head. "Ashamed of what?" insisted the little prince, who wanted to help him. "Ashamed of drinking!" The tippler brought his speech to an end, and shut himself up in an impregnable silence. 

"And what good does it do you to own the stars?" "It does me the good of making me rich." "And what good does it do you to be rich?" "It makes it possible for me to buy more stars, if any are ever discovered." "This man," the little prince said to himself, "reasons a little like my poor tippler..."

The wind blows them away. They have no roots, and that makes their life very difficult.

At sunrise the sand is the color of honey. And that honey color was making me happy, too.

Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music,out of my burrow. If, for example, you come at four o'clock in the afternoon, then at three o'clock I shall begin to be happy. Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all ready made at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. 

"They are pursuing nothing at all," said the switchman. "They are asleep in there, or if they are not asleep they are yawning. Only the children are flattening their noses against the windowpanes." "Only the children know what they are looking for,"

"Water may also be good for the heart..." 

"The stars are beautiful, because of a flower that cannot be seen."

He laughed, touched the rope, and set the pulley to working. And the pulley moaned, like an old weathervane which the wind has long since forgotten. "Do you hear?" said the little prince. "We have wakened the well, and it is singing..."

It was as sweet as some special festival treat. This water was indeed a different thing from ordinary nourishment. Its sweetness was born of the walk under the stars, the song of the pulley, the effort of my arms.

At sunrise the sand is the color of honey. And that honey color was making me happy, too.