Perfect love has a breath of poetry which can exalt the relations of the least-instructed human beings.
Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence.
She hates everything that is not what she longs for.
A man never lies with more delicious languor under the influence of a passion than when he has persuaded himself that he shall subdue it to-morrow.
Her own misery filled her heart – there was no room in it for other people’s sorrow.
It’s easy finding reasons why other folks should be patient.
It’s but little good you’ll do a-watering the last year’s crops.
Plainness has its peculiar temptations quite as much as beauty.
Best friend, my well-spring in the wilderness!
Worldly faces never look so worldly as at a funeral.
Affection is the broadest basis of a good life.
I think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of music.
Surely it is not true blessedness to be free of sorrow while there is sorrow and sin in the world. Sorrow is a part of love and love does not seek to throw it off.
That farewell kiss which resembles greeting, that last glance of love which becomes the sharpest pang of sorrow.
Might, could, would – they are contemptible auxiliaries.
We have no right to come forward and urge wider changes for good, until we have tried to alter the evils which lie under our own hands.
A mother’s yearning feels the presence of the cherished child even in the degraded man.
Kisses honeyed by oblivion.
Joy is the best of wine.
I couldn’t live in peace if I put the shadow of a willful sin between myself and God.