How often, in this cold and bitter world, is the warm heart thrown back upon itself! Cold, careless, are we of another's grief; we wrap ourselves in sullen selfishness.

Nothing but love can answer to love; no affection, no kindness, no care, can supply its place: it is its own sweet want.

The past is perpetual youth to the heart.

who has not experienced, at some time or other, that words had all the relief of tears?

The fearless make their own way.

Thou know'st how fearless is my trust in thee.

Eyes that droop like summer flowers.