But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.
There is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and have recovered hope.
A woman's hopes are woven of sunbeams; a shadow annihilates them.
Hopes have precarious life. They are oft blighted, withered, snapped sheer off In vigorous growth and turned to rottenness.
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