Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe.

I am truly miserable - more so than I like to acknowledge to myself. Pride refuses to aid me. It has brought me into the scrape, and will not help me out of it.

I cannot get him to write or speak in real, solid earnest. I don't much mind it now, but if it be always so, what shall I do with the serious part of myself?

What the world stigmatizes as romantic is often more nearly allied to the truth than is commonly supposed.

Thank heaven, I am free and safe at last!

Preserve me from such cordiality! It is like handling briar-roses and may-blossoms - bright enough to the eye, and outwardly soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now and then you feel them too; and perhaps resent the injury by crushing them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the detriment of your own fingers.

You cannot expect stone to be as pliable as clay.