Granting our wish is one of Fate's saddest jokes.

We look at death through the cheap-glazed windows of the flesh, and believe him the monster which the flawed and cracked glass represents him.

Metaphor is no argument, though it be sometimes the gunpowder to drive one home, and imbed it in the memory.

The greatest homage we can pay to truth, is to use it.

Silence is sorrow's best food.

They talk about their Pilgrim blood, their birthright high and holy! a mountain-stream that ends in mud thinks is melancholy.

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache.