We all remember epochs in our experience when some dear expectation dies, or some new motive is born.
Every year strips us of at least one vain expectation, and teaches us to reckon some solid good in its stead.
The thing we look forward to often comes to pass, but never precisely in the way we have imagined to ourselves.
A woman's hopes are woven of sunbeams; a shadow annihilates them.
Her little butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious expectation.