It is foolish to pretend that one is fully recovered from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar.

Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed;Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,-- The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,- Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been.

As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach: these are the three great chords of might.

There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.