Her little butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious expectation.

If the past is not to bind us, where can duty lie? We should have no law but the inclination of the moment.

The 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.

It's but little good you'll do a-watering the last year's crops

For character too is a process and an unfoldingamong our valued friends is there not someone or other who is a little too self confident and disdainful; whose distinguished mind is a little spotted with commonness; who is a little pinched here and protruberent there with native prejudices; or whose better energies are liable to lapse down the wrong channel under the influence of transient solicitations?

More helpful than all wisdom is one draught of simple human pity that will not forsake us.

... the fallibility of human brains is in nothing more obvious than in proof reading.