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.
It is not the end of joy that makes old age so sad, but the end of hope.
Joys are our wings, sorrows our spurs.
With so many thousand joys, is it not black ingratitude to call the world a place of sorrow and torment?