We build statues out of snow, and weep to see them melt.
Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand!
There is a southern proverb - fine words butter no parsnips.
A ruin should always be protected but never repaired - thus may we witness full the lingering legacies of the past.
We are like the herb which flourisheth most when it is most trampled on.
Heaven know its time; the bullet has its billet