Every man has his secret sorrows.

The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy.

Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.

The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.

The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

It is folly to pretend that one ever wholly recovers from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar. There are faces I can never look upon without emotion, there are names I can never hear spoken without almost starting.