It's well known there's always two sides, if no more.
Love at its highest flood rushes beyond its object, and loses itself in the sense of divine mystery.
Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence.
It is never too late to become the person you always thought you could be.
Poetry and art and knowledge are sacred and pure.
What furniture can give such finish to a room as a tender woman's face? And is there any harmony of tints that has such stirring of delight as the sweet modulation of her voice?