To an old memory like mine the present days are but as a little water poured on the deep.
Hatred is like fire, it makes even light rubbish deadly.
There was no gleam, no shadow, for the heavens, too, were one still, pale cloud; no sound or motion in anything but the dark river that flowed and moaned like an unresting sorrow.
In high vengeance there is noble scorn.
Children demand that their heroes should be fleckless, and easily believe them so .
All our ignorance brings us closer to death.