Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility

Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions

The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart, The secret anniversaries of the heart... -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; Behind the clouds the sun is shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

Every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad