O may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, … - George Eliot

After all, the true seeing is within.

Nature repairs her ravages, — repairs them with her sunshine, and with human labor. The desolation wrought by that flood had left little visible trace on the face of the earth, five years after. The fifth autumn was rich in golden cornstacks, rising in thick clusters among the distant hedgerows; the wharves and warehouses on the Floss were busy again, with echoes of eager voices, with hopeful lading and unlading. And every man and woman mentioned in this history was still living, except those whose end we know.

I like not only to be loved, but to be told I am loved.