There are two kinds of discontent in this world; the discontent that works, and the discontent that wrings its hands. The first gets what it wants, and the second loses what it has. There’s no cure for the first but success; and there’s no cure at all for the second.
All the discontented people I know are trying to be something they are not, to do something they cannot do.
Sorrow is the mere rust of the soul. Activity will cleanse and brighten it.
Do not become attached to the things you like, do not cherish aversion to the things you dislike. Sorrow, fear and bondage come from one’s likes and dislikes.
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that’s gone: Violets plucked the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again.
Words that weep and tears that speak.
Man alone is born crying, lives complaining, and dies disappointed.
Who never ate his bread in sorrow, Who never spent the darksome hours Weeping, and watching for the morrow, He knows ye not, ye gloomy Powers.
Sorrows gather around great souls as storms do around mountains; but, like them, they break the storm and purify the air of the plain beneath them.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some divine despair.