Quotes About Sorrow

Nothing on earth can make up for the loss of one who has loved you.

Shouldn't we fear life? Who steers a safe boat? Around us sorrow swells like a heaving ocean; we can see how the hungry waves lick the ship's sides, how they climb to board her. No safe anchorage, no solid ground, no steady ship, as far as the eye can see; only an unknown sky over an ocean full of trouble!

Må andra lyssna till tal om blommor och solsken, men för mig väljer jag de mörka nätterna, fulla av syner och äventyr, för mig de hårda ödena, för mig förvildade hjärtans sorguppfyllda lidelser.

He who is sorrowful can force himself to smile, but he who is glad cannot weep.

I feel only sorrow that I have failed to please. Sorrow-and not resentment-for my mother says that resentment is the most readily visible of all the sinful emotions, but sorrow can enhance one's sweetness and appeal. Resentment, the empress says, is like a snake that nests in the bosom, and it can turn and strike her who harbors it.

To be always fortunate, and to pass through life with a soul that has never known sorrow, is to be ignorant of one half of nature.

It is our lot to lose our loves and feel our hearts break in the wake of that loss.

Much knowledge, much sorrow...

You'll probably throw me out eventually. Next week..or twenty years from now... Sooner or later, you'll get worn out... And leave me for real... Maybe I'll gaze, dumbfounded, at a life with nothing left. That's okay, I'll watch you leave...knowing our love has died. I'll adorn the road of death with flowers. Since that's all I can do.

Replace the guilt with pride, the sorrow with smiles, gather the broken pieces of the heart, and dance

Thousands of years of language and literature and we haven't come up with something better than these two, tired words -I'm sorry-' to express sympathy for a loss. Maybe because deep down we know that nothing we say can help someone who's suffering.

The tears we shed are not just for ourselves but for our world.

No more crying. It's all wetness and no comfort at all.

She put a wedge beside my heart And then she brought the mallet down She sang no song to guide her work I lost my heart without a sound

The three girls were sitting and lying beside her, holding one another, weeping, their arms and legs and hair tangled like the roots of close trees, sobs shaking them like leaves in a high wind.

That year, when the trees burned the fire of late summer into their leaves and the ground mist was a ghost of the river, long and wet and cold, the aunt looked from her windows to the walls around her and imagined another winter inside them. She began to see the world as a bird sees bars, and she scratched her arms beneath her sleeves.

The day I won an Emmy was also the day my father passed away. I received a call from my sister on the way to the ceremony and had to turn my car around and catch the first flight back to Karachi.

Her grief for both of them was flavored with guilt the way salt flavors the sea; she could taste it in the tears.

Rarely do page-turners written for middle-school kids also ignite excitement in adults. (A notable exception is the series of Harry Potter books.) Fewer still explore the secret sorrows of children's lives in the mid-1800s, whether enslaved or free. Running Out of Night, a debut novel from Californian Sharon Lovejoy, a veteran author-illustrator known nationally for her prizewinning nonfiction books on gardening and nature, gives you both.–OpEd News

When he loved me, I looked out at the world as if from inside a profound dwelling, like a burrow or a well, I'd gaze up, at noon, and see Orion shining—when I thought he loved me, when I thought we were joined not just for breath's time, but for the long continuance

Then every scene I thought of I visited accompanied by a death-spirit, everything was chilled with it, each time I woke, I lay in dreading bliss to feel and hear him sigh and snore.

Dread and sorrow reaching, in time, into every reach

Bea's smile softened. "I was that connected to my Robert, as well. In many ways, losing him was worse than losing Leah. She was my blood, but he was my heart.

She was smiling as she leaned toward Reed, who stooped down to put his lips against her ear. He would tell her that he wanted to travel to Merendon, or Marring Cross or Cranfield, someplace far away and exotic. He was the sort of man whose wish altered every year. He said in a voice that only she could hear: "I wish you were not my sister." She pulled back and stared up at him. He smiled, his face just faintly touched with sadness, and tossed his true-love into the fire.