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Updated: June 17, 2025
"Sorrow's an unwelcome guest, whether it comes expected, or without any previous knowledge.
Too truly has our poet sung it: "Comfort! comfort scorned of devils, this is truth the poet sings; That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things." Would he, Roland began to ask himself, have been hurried into the hasty words, the passionate feeling, which were really the origin of all this woe, but for his regard for her? No; he saw it all plainly now.
His father hearing of this, insisted on sending him a cheque for £150 out of his savings, adding he should be deeply hurt if it was not accepted and no more said about it. How soon was David coming down to see South Wales once more gloriously clothed with spring? Oh "Sorrow's Crown of Sorrow, the remembering happier days!"
For hours he sat bowed in grief, and silent, while sorrow's bitter waters surged over him. No more would her sweet smile light his home; no more her voice call his name in those tender tones, that had so often been music to his ears; no more could they walk or sit in the moonlight and converse. Was it really true? Had Alice gone, or was it not all a troubled dream?
She did not look like Sissy to them now, but as a being large, towering, and awful a divine personage with whom they had nothing in common. Poor Sorrow's campaign against sin, the world, and the devil was doomed to be of limited brilliancy luckily perhaps for himself, considering his beginnings.
Nay, give me no excuses vain, For none of them I ask, Plead truth to her thou cozenest now They'll serve thee in the task. And if my counsel thou wilt take, Forget these eyes, this heart, Forget my grief at thy neglect Forget me and depart." Thus to the Moor, Azarco, The lovely Zaida cried, And closed her lattice, overwhelmed With sorrow's rising tide.
In turning the key, the bolt, which was rather rusty, made a resistance so noisy, as partly to attract the sleeper's attention, though not to awake him. Everard stood by his bedside, as he heard him mutter, "Is it morning already, jailor? Why, you dog, an you had but a cast of humanity in you, you would qualify your vile news with a cup of sack; hanging is sorry work, my masters and sorrow's dry."
The long, dark folds of her gown showed faintly against the gray stone, and her arms, bare from the elbow, lay across the face of the dial with unrelaxed fingers clenching the cornice; her head drooping, not languidly but with tension, her eyes half-closed, showing the lashes against a pale cheek; and thus, motionless, leaning on the stone in the dusk, she might have been Sorrow's self.
The issue was, the loss of the extremities of both feet. Out of this revelation, part by part, at last came out the four acts of the gladness, and the one long, and as yet uncatastrophied fifth act of the grief of his life's drama. He was an old man, who, at the age of nearly sixty, had postponedly encountered that thing in sorrow's technicals called ruin.
Beneath the dark waves where the dead go down, There are gulfs of night more deep; But little they care, whom the waves once drown, How far from the litght they sleep. And dark though Sorrow's fearful billows be, They have caverns darker still. O God! that Sorrow's waves were like the sea, Whose topmost waters kill. -Anonymous. It was nearly noon when Harry awoke.
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