Oh The Long And Dreary Winter! Oh

No Literature Is Complete Until The Language It Was Written In Is Dead.

The Sea Hath Its Pearls The Heaven Hath Its Stars But My Heart, My Heart Has Its Love.

Being All Fashioned Of The Self-same Dust, Let Us Be Merciful As Well As Just

There Is No Grief Like The Grief That Does Not Speak.

It Is Folly To Pretend That One Ever Wholly Recovers From A Disappointed Passion. Such Wounds Always Leave A Scar. There Are Faces I Can Never Look Upon Without Emotion, There Are Names I Can Never Hear Spoken Without Almost Starting.