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that I should.
Cheerful as I may have seemed to you at times, there are other times, when it seems to me that my heart would break.
The world considers grief unmanly, and is suspicious of that sorrow, which is expressed by words and outward signs.
Hence we strive to be gay and put a cheerful courage on, when our souls are very sad. But there are hours; when the world is shut out, and we can no longer hear the voices, that cheer and encourage us. To me such hours come daily.
I was so happy with my dear Mary, that it is very hard to be alone.
The sympathies of friendship are doubtless something—but after all how little, how unsatisfying they are to one who has been so loved as I have been!
This is a selfish sorrow, I know: but neither reason nor reflection can still it. Affliction makes us childish.
A grieved and wounded heart is hard to be persuaded.
We do not wish to have our sorrow lessened.
There are wounds, which are never entirely healed.
A thousand associations call up the past, with all its gloom and shadow.
Often a mere look or sound—a voice—the odor of a flower—the merest trifle is enough to awaken within me deep and unutterable emotions.
Hardly a day passes, that some face, or familiar object, or some passage in the book I am reading does not call up the image of my beloved
