There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart.
No! no! My engagement is with no bride–the worms! the worms expect me! I am a dead man–I have been slain by robbers–my body lies at Wurtzburg–at midnight I am to be buried–the grave is waiting for me–I must keep my appointment!
To look upon its grass grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace.
It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave.