Sorrows gather around great souls as storms do around mountains; but, like them, they break the storm and purify the air of the plain beneath them.
Joys are our wings, sorrows our spurs.
With so many thousand joys, is it not black ingratitude to call the world a place of sorrow and torment?
Has it never occurred to us, when surrounded by sorrows, that they may be sent to us only for our instruction, as we darken the eyes of birds when we wish them to sing?
Sorrows are like thunderclouds, in the distance they look black, over our heads scarcely gray.
There is a joy in sorrow which none but a mourner can know.
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