Oh, the pleasure of eating my dinner alone!
A child's nature is too serious a thing to admit of its being regarded as a mere appendage to another being.
The red-letter days, now become, to all intents and purposes, dead-letter days.
We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.