Quotes About Sorrow

I tell you hopeless grief is passionless.

Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!

I shall but love thee bitter after death

To H.S. Boyd Monday, September 19, 1843. My own dear Friend, — I should have written instantly to explain myself out of appearances which did me injustice, only I have been in such distress as to have no courage for writing. Flush was stolen away, and for three days I could neither sleep nor eat, nor do anything much more rational than cry.

In my own defence, I really believe that my distress arose somewhat less from the mere separation from dear little Flushie than from the consideration of how he was breaking his heart, cast upon the cruel world. Formerly, when he has been prevented from sleeping on my bed he has passed the night in moaning piteously, and often he has refused to eat from a strange hand.

They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.

Now, he has the rage of the sun-eater and the sorrow he drank down with Muire's breath, and he is certain of nothing. So he lingers between spaces, liminal, indeterminate, watching for a glimpse of his enemy's face or the face that was never his lover's, and waiting.

When Rien brought Perceval into Dust's embrace, she was cold.

There was the sense of something having been ripped from me; that heartbroken punch of loss without any memories to explain where it was coming from.

In the house of dust, roll yourself in ashes.

As they broke apart, the information safely handed over, the memory of the kiss left Dust full of an aching emptiness, everywhere his airborne nanoparticls drifted and spread.

Sly and sickways. I have to swallow my grief and my hope before it all spills down my face again: somehow she's not broken yet.

The list of what the world would not allow was long for mourning over.

Dry hands, hot, callused. Eyes dripping silver light, so it pooled and ran down the Wolf's creased cheeks like tears. But the look on his face wasn't sorrow.

All of Mingan's longings and his sorrows were there under Strifbjorn's heart, only waiting to be taken out and examined in the light.

His laugh came forth as a voiceless sob.

David was a featherweight in his arms, a frail thing that smelled of citrus-musk and and lilac cologne and filled him with rasping, heated pulse. David stifled a sob against his throat, jaws working, lacerating Sebastien's skin as Sebastien bore them both down on the couch.

He just wanted to die and now he's in me, and Mallory won't let him die.

Keith could smell the emotions swirling behind Fyodor's impassive voice, the richness of fear and sorrow like old thick blood, the determination and the bright sharp steel of need. He breathed it deep and nodded.

A wild, sleepless sorrow hovered inside my chest.

He wasn't sure if the salt and iron he tasted was blood and the bridle, or Mehiel's tears.

In her eyes I saw the pain that comes from regrets that will never be lifted.