They are heard but as a passing murmur.

The deep, unswerving confidence of young love, what a blessed thing it is! Heart answers to heart without an unequal throb.

The world around is bright and beautiful: the atmosphere is filled with spring's most delicious perfumes.
From this dream--why should we call it a dream ?--Is it not a blessed reality ?--Is not young, fervent love, true love?
Alas! this is an evil world, and man's heart is evil.

From this dream there is too often a tearful awaking.

Often, too often, hearts are suddenly torn asunder, and wounds are made that never heal, or, healing, leave hard, disfiguring scars.