Joy descends gently upon us like the evening dew, and does not patter down like a hailstorm.
What makes old age so sad is not that our joys but our hopes cease.
There is a joy in sorrow which none but a mourner can know.
With so many thousand joys, is it not black ingratitude to call the world a place of sorrow and torment?
Joys are our wings, sorrows our spurs.
It is not the end of joy that makes old age so sad, but the end of hope.