We are all of us imaginative in some form or other, for images are the brood of desire.
George EliotThe perpetual mourner -- the grief that can never be healed -- is innocently enough felt to be wearisome by the rest of the world. And my sense of desolation increases. Each day seems a new beginning -- a new acquaintance with grief.
George EliotMelodies die out, like the pipe of Pan, with the ears that love them and listen for them.
George Eliot