Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
from the poem
The Cotter’s Saturday Night.

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
from the poem
The Cotter’s Saturday Night.

I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more read more

I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.

Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it read more

Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever.

Sweet is true love that is given in vain, and sweet is death that takes away pain.

Sweet is true love that is given in vain, and sweet is death that takes away pain.

There is no real evil in life, except great pain; all the rest is imaginary, and depends on the light read more

There is no real evil in life, except great pain; all the rest is imaginary, and depends on the light in which we view things.

Pain is no longer pain when it is past.

Pain is no longer pain when it is past.

Much benevolence of the passive order may be traced to a disinclination to inflict pain upon oneself.

Much benevolence of the passive order may be traced to a disinclination to inflict pain upon oneself.

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

Long ailments wear out pain, and long hopes, joy.

Long ailments wear out pain, and long hopes, joy.