God Did Not Give Me My Life

There Is, I Am Convinced, No Picture That Conveys In All Its Dreadfulness, A Vision Of Sorrow, Despairing, Remediless, Supreme. If I Could Paint Such A Picture, The Canvas Would Show Only A Woman Looking Down At Her Empty Arms.

I Don't Call You Handsome, Sir, Though I Love You Most Dearly: Far Too Dearly To Flatter You. Don't Flatter Me.

Love Me, Then, Or Hate Me, As You Will," I Said At Last, "you Have My Full And Free Forgiveness: Ask Now For God's, And Be At Peace.

I Thought I Loved Him When He Went Away; I Love Him Now In Another Degree: He Is More My Own. [ . . . ] Oh! A Thousand Weepers, Praying In Agony On Waiting Shores, Listened For That Voice, But It Was Not Uttered--not Uttered Till; When The Hush Came, Some Could Not Feel It: Till, When The Sun Returned, His Light Was Night To Some!

Men, In General, Are A Sort Of Scum, Very Different To Anything Of Which You Have An Idea.