We build statues out of snow, and weep to see them melt.
Every hour has its end.
Chess is a sad waste of brains.
It is the privilege of tale-tellers to open their story in an inn, the free rendezvous of all travellers, and where the humour of each displays itself, without ceremony or restraint.
A mother's pride, a father's joy.
Soldier, rest! Thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Dream of battled fields no more. Days of danger, nights of waking.