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

The best laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft a-gley; And leave us naught but grief and pain For promised joy

She had been suffering increasing amounts of pain.

Sometimes, pain is all that lets you know you're alive.

Here's another thing: There are certain wounds that never heal, certain hurts that never leave you alone, like a broken bone that heals wrong and always twinges when it's about to rain.

There is nothing in the whole frame of man which seems to me so unaccountable as that thing called conscience.