Ah, tell me not that memory sheds gladness o'er the past, what is recalled by faded flowers, save that they did not last?
Perhaps, from an innate desire of justification, sorrow always exaggerates itself. Memory is quite one of Job's friends; and the past is ever ready to throw its added darkness on the present.
The past is perpetual youth to the heart.
Repentance is a one-faced Janus, ever looking to the past.
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