We are never happy; we can only remember that we were so once.

Alexander Smith
Profession: Poet
Nationality: Scottish
Some suggestions for you :
The dead keep their secrets, and in a while we shall be as wise as they - and as taciturn.
To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
If you wish to preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness.
Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
It was his nature to blossom into song, as it is a tree's to leaf itself in April.