To-morrow is ah, whose?
never was there a thoroughly noble nature without some romance in it.
With faces like dead lovers who died true.
we are so scornful when we are young!
When the ship is going down we trouble ourselves little enough about the style of the cabin furniture.
A lost love. Deny it who will, ridicule it, treat it as mere imagination and sentiment, the thing is and will be; and women do suffer therefrom, in all its infinite varieties: loss by death, by faithlessness or unworthiness, and by mistaken or unrequited affection.