When faith is lost, when honor dies, the man is dead. >>
For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: It might >>
O Time and change! -- with hair as gray as was my sire's that winter d >>
We feel at first as if some opportunities of kindness and sympathy wer >>
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. >>
Never does one feel oneself so utterly helpless as in trying to speak >>
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, that all of thee we loved and cherished has with thy summer roses perished; and left, as its young beauty fled, an ashen memory in its stead.