Such never speak of them but when compelled, and then almost as if to utter their names were an act of impiety.

Not In Memoriam but In Oblivionem should be the inscription upon the tombs they raise.

The memory that forsakes the sunlight, like the fishes in the underground river, loses its eyes; the cloud of its grief carries no rainbow; behind the veil of its twin-future burns no lamp fringing its edges with the light of hope.

I can better, however, understand the hopelessness of the hopeless than their calmness along with it.

Surely they must be upheld by the presence within them of that very immortality, against whose aurora they shut to their doors, then mourn as if there were no such thing.
Radiant as she was by nature, lady Margaret, when sorrow came, could do little towards her own support.