A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
Tears may be dried up, but the heart - never.
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache.
Love and pain become one in the same in the eyes of a wounded child.
Our live experiences, fixed in aphorisms, stiffen into cold epigrams. Our heart's blood, as we write it, turns to mere dull ink.
When a child can be brought to tears, and not from fear of punishment, but from repentance he needs no chastisement. When the tears begin to flow from the grief of their conduct you can be sure there is an angel nestling in their heart.
I was always the child who wore her emotions on her sleeve.
Somebody called me a 'bruised romantic' once, and I like that.
That heart alone is hard which does not shudder at itself for not feeling its hardness.
Laughter and grief join hands. Always the heart Clumps in the breast with heavy stride; The face grows lined and wrinkled like a chart, The eyes bloodshot with tears and tide. Let the wind blow, for many a man shall die.
My inner child is not wounded.