Despair doth strike as deep a furrow in the brain as mischief or remorse.
Pity speaks to grief more sweetly than a band of instruments.
How silent are the winds!
The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue; A string which hath no discord.
The progress from infancy to boyhood is imperceptible. In that long dawn of the mind we take but little heed. The years pass by us, one by one, little distinguishable from each other. But when the intellectual sun of our life is risen, we take due note of joy and sorrow.
I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more.