Quotes About Sorrow

The man should be dead. He had been beheaded years ago, hadn't he? She wiped the rain from her eyes. But he was still there, the murderer of her child. He was still there.

Human beings are capable of the kind of love and loyalty that transcends not only the physical debasement but even the spiritual weariness of the years of sorrow.

I looked at mother with adoration in my own eyes, and when she had taken the kerosene lamp and had gone away, and when we boys were all again curled quietly like sleeping puppies in the bed, I cried a little, as I am sure father must have cried sometimes when there was no one about. Perhaps his getting drunk, as he did on all possible occasions, was a way of crying too.

All evil actions committed by me since time immemorial, stemming from greed, anger, and ignorance, arising from body, speech, and mind, I deeply repent having committed.

Till you experience it, you think that grief is one emotion. It isn't; it is many emotions packaged into one. It's like standing at the top of a tall building and having the floor fall out.

To the woman in the restaurant today, the doll in her arms was the real child who still lived in her memories.

I mention her name and the old pain returns. Forget her, you say? How can you forget a living human being?

Joy was not the raw material of humor . . . The dark source was sorrow.

Life essentially seeks out balance.I have found that it is in the habit of trading one sorrow for one joy until one cancels out the other.

A tiny bit of myself is lost when my friends are gone. A tiny bit of myself was lost when my brothers, all but one, passed away.

It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.

And when the war is done and youth stone deadI'd toddle safely home and die—in bed.

Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen cold Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you, Deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold; And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder; Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head.... You are too young to fall asleep for ever; And when you sleep you remind me of the dead.

54. At Daybreak I LISTEN for him through the rain, And in the dusk of starless hours I know that he will come again; Loth was he ever to forsake me: He comes with glimmering of flowers 5 And stir of music to awake me. Spirit of purity, he stands As once he lived in charm and grace: I may not hold him with my hands, Nor bid him stay to heal my sorrow; 10 Only his fair, unshadowed face Abides with me until to-morrow.

Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows. In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.

Burning my dreams away beside the fire: For death has made me wise and bitter and strong; And I am rich in all that I have lost.

Your fortune is misfortune if it is not Love.

El amargo gusto del mar, tan parecido a las lágrimas, entró en mi boca. Me desvanecí. No sé quién nos salvó, pero sea quien fuere, no se lo perdono, pues le debo haber quedado en este mundo de peleas, en lugar de haber perecido en un espléndido naufragio, abrazada a mi marido.

Children are like that, Irene often thought, for every small dose of happiness they give us, we have to swallow all the bitterness in the world. Men are like that too. That's how the world is.

I feel such sorrow when I think how horror imitates beauty.

Ignite the flares, connect the phones, wind all the clocks; the sun goes rusty like a medal in its box - collect it from the loft. Peg out the stars, replace the bulbs of Jupiter and Mars. A man like that takes something with him when he dies, but he has wept the coins that rested on his eyes, eased out the stopper from the mouthpiece of the cave, exhumed his own white body from the grave.

there was nothing I could do for her, or for Miller either.

The day it all went wrong for me was 11 August 1989. That was the day I killed a man for the first time.

In 1267, a pilgrim, the old Spanish rabbi known as Ramban, mourned her eclipse: I compare you, my mother, to the woman whose son died in her lap and painfully there is milk in her breasts and she suckles the pups of dogs. And despite all that, your lovers abandoned you and your enemies desolated you, but faraway they remember and glorify the Holy City.