Perhaps the wind
Wails so in winter for the summers dead,
And all sad sounds are nature’s funeral cries
For what has been and is not.

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More from George Eliot

He was like a cock who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow.

Chap. xxxiii.

Blessed is the man who, having nothing to say, abstains from giving us wordy evidence of the fact.

Impressions of Theophrastus Such, chapter 4.

Wear a smile and have friends; wear a scowl and have wrinkles. What do we live for if not to make the world less difficult for each other?

Oh may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence.

Oh may I join the Choir invisible.

His smile is sweetened by his gravity.

Book i.