And then when all around grows dark, when we feel utterly alone, when all men right and left pass us by and know us not, a forgotten feeling rises in the breast.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
For when a woman is left too much alone, sooner or later she begins to think;- And no man knows what then she may discover.
As we wander, grieving, in yet another dark moment, amid our pain we must struggle to remember the redemptive power of love and hope.
We can recognize the dawn and the decline of love by the uneasiness we feel when alone together.
Since love first made the breast an instrument Of fierce lamenting, by its flame my heart Was molten to a mirror, like a rose I pluck my breast apart, that I may hang This mirror in your sight.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be blest.
Men pass in front of our eyes like butterflies, creatures of a brief season. We love them; they are brave, proud, beautiful, clever; and they die almost at once. They die so soon that our hearts are continually racked with pain.
The spring of love becomes hidden and soon filled up.
We all must live our lives always feeling, always thinking the moment has arrived.
Thus one memory follows another until the waves dash together over our heads, and a deep sigh swells the breast, which warns us that we have forgotten to breathe in the midst of these pure thoughts.
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.