I always think the flowers can see us, and know what we are thinking about.
Our deeds still travel with us from afar, and what we have been makes us what we are.
Our words have wings, but fly not where we would.
Saints and martyrs had never interested Maggie so much as sages and poets.
It is easy to say how we love new friends, and what we think of them, but words can never trace out all the fibers that knit us to the old.
That farewell kiss which resembles greeting, that last glance of love which becomes the sharpest pang of sorrow.