Who shall tell the lady's grief When her Cat was past relief? Who shall number the hot tears Shed o'er her, beloved for years? Who shall say the dark dismay Which her dying caused that day?
Hope is like a harebell trembling from its birth.
Love shall be our token; love be yours and love be mine.
I dream of you to wake; would that I might Dream of you and not wake but slumber on.
Can anything be sadder than work left unfinished? Yes, work never begun.
She gave up beauty in her tender youth, gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways; she covered up her eyes lest they should gaze on vanity, and chose the bitter truth.
