Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
The grave itself is but a covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!
Good-night! good-night! as we so oft have said Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days That are no more, and shall no more return. Thou hast but taken up thy lamp and gone to bed; I stay a little longer, as one stays To cover up the embers that still burn.
All was ended now, the hope, and the fear and the sorrow, All the aching of the heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!
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