That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

So disasters come not singly; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another's motions, When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wiseRound their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish.

There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye.

The heart, like the mind, has a memory. And in it are kept the most precious keepsakes.

The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.

In the long run men hit only what they aim at.