C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.

Sighs

To sigh, yet feel no pain.

Moore.

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Gray.

He sighed;—the next resource is the full moon,
Where all sighs are deposited; and now
It happen’d luckily, the chaste orb shone.

Byron.

My soul has rest, sweet sigh! alone in thee.

Petrarch.

Sped the soft intercourse from soul to soul
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

Pope.

Sighs
Which perfect Joy, perplexed for utterance,
Stole from her sister Sorrow.

Tennyson.

But sighs subside, and tears (e’en widows’) shrink,
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow
So narrow as to shame their wintry brink,
Which threatens inundations deep and yellow!
Such diff’rence do a few months make. You’d think
Grief a rich field that never would lie fallow;
No more it doth; its ploughs but change their boys,
Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.

Byron.

Yet sighes, deare sighes, indeede true friends you are
That do not leave your left friend at the wurst,
But, as you with my breast, I oft have nurst
So, gratefull now, you waite upon my care.

Sir Philip Sidney.

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