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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.

The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.

We bury love, Forgetfulness grows over it like grass; That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.

Every man's road in life is marked by the graves of his personal likings.

Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition. -Alexander Smith.

We twain have met like the ships upon the sea, Who behold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet: One little hour! and then, away they speed On lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam, To meet no more.

Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.

The sea complains upon a thousand shores.

If you wish to preserve your secret wrap it up in frankness.

The sun was down, And all the west was paved with sullen fire. I cried, "Behold! the barren beach of hell At ebb of tide."