How strange this fear of death is! We are never frightened at a sunset.
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I am always hearing. . . the sound of a far off song. I do not exactly know where it is, or what it means; and I don't hear much of it, only the odour...
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the truth she gathered, enlarging her strength, enlarged likewise the composure that comes of strength.
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As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorro...
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Why are all reflections lovelier than what we call reality? -- not so grand or so strong, it may be, but always lovelier? Fair as is the gliding sloop...
