The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled.

A literary movement consists of five or six people who live in the same town and hate each other cordially.

Tis the last rose of summer. Left blooming alone.

So long as one does not despair, so long as one doesn't look upon life bitterly, things work out fairly well in the end.

The difficulty of life is in the choice.