Pain has an element of blank

I miss the grasshoppers much, but suppose it is all for the best. I should become too much attached to a trotting world.

Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, But which will bloom most constantly? The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring ,Its summer blossoms scent the air; Yet wait till winter comes again, And who will call the wild-briar fair? Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, And deck thee with holly's sheen, That, when December blights thy brow, He still may leave thy garland green.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.

Till I loved I never lived.

Judge tenderly of me.

Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.