Oh eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears; O life, no life, but lively form of death; Oh world, no world, but mass of public wrongs.
Oh eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears; O life, no life, but lively form of death; Oh world, no world, but mass of public wrongs.
It is usually the imagination that is wounded first, rather than the heart; it being much more sensitive.
Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe.
I know it is all right. I wish I could make you feel so, I wish I could describe my feelings.
There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.
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