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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
A difference of tastes in jokes is a great strain on the affections.
I think my life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face: it was so near to me, and her arms were round me, and she sang to me.
Men’s men: gentle or simple, they’re much of a muchness.
The mother’s yearning, that completest type of the life in another life which is the essence of real human love, feels the presence of the cherished child even in the debased, degraded man.
What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they are joined for life – to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?