Life wastes fast in such vigils as Caroline had of late but too often kept -- vigils during which the mind, having no pleasant food to nourish it, no manna of hope, no hived-honey of joyous memories, tries to live on the meagre diet of wishes, and failing to derive thence either delight or support, and feeling itself ready to perish with craving want, turns to philosophy, to resolution, to resignation; calls on all these gods for aid, calls vainly -- is unheard, unhelped, and languishes.
The always cheery Charlotte Bronte. From her novel Shirley
262
"Feeling like I’d come home"
6 hours ago
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