Quotes About Sorrow

My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driv'n away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.

Every night, and every morn, Some to misery are born. Every morn, and every night, Some are born to sweet delight.

Death had been more pitiful to them than longer life would have been. It had taken the one in the loyalty of love, and the other in the innocence of faith, from a world which for love has no recompense and for faith no fulfilment.

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind, Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves, The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach, Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow. Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands, With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves, Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

So I walk home like a burning house, like a burning stable, the light of life pouring out of the fire, fire pouring out of the dying wood, hostile sorrow lingering under the ashes

Our heads met, our eyes crossed paths, the window to the courtyard lay open, I whispered in his ear and he started crying in my hair, wept like a child, I stroked him, touched by his crying, that he opened up, as he truly was, rent his shirt and exposed his heart like the paintings of Jesus hung over the beds in country houses.

Sometimes I felt so badly about those cats that I'd find myself wishing that both I and the cats could simply cease to exist.

A o?i so vse na Julki. In vse klopi zadržujejo dih, da bi bile vse o?i še bolj tesno pri njem. Kakor da bodo iz njih, iz o?i, vsak hip zaplavale otroške dlani kot golobje peruti in privzdignile njeno telo in mu zamanjšale bole?ine. Njene o?i pa so žametno in vlažno mehke, ker se njena stopala ne dotikajo poda. Rožnat trak, ki povezuje kiti, pa ?epi na kavlju kot metulj z razprtimi krili.

I read in a magazine the other day that Hindu Indians do not mourn their dead; instead they rejoice, believing that the loved one has gone to a better place. I cannot imagine that, myself, for how can the heart not ache with the sorrow of that terrible finality? Do these people have no feelings?

In this place, amid sorrow and shame, his own life and the tragic history of his country met. Nothing spoke to him of himself as much as these remains scattered on the naked ground.

Loneliness was also the young woman in black who came almost every day to the Polytechnic. She knew exactly which of all the tangled skeletons lying on the cold concrete were those of her little girl and her husband. She would go straight to one of the sixty-four doors of Murambi and stand in the middle of the room before two intertwined corpses: a man clutching a decapitated child against him. The young woman in black prayed in silence, and then left.

Sorrow is never more sorrowful than when it jests at its own misery.

I ducked inside, my mind still numb. The stench came first, the acid smells of urine and the never-mistaken stink of fecal matter. Something was burning—I think I knew what—and the damp yellow odor of sweat seemed to be coming from the walls. But there was something else here. The smell, not of death, but of predeath, like gangrene, like something dying and decomposing while still breathing. The

She hurt more than herself.

Do you know where he went earlier that day?" Tawny shook her head. The stale stench of hairspray and regret wafted toward him.

An old dog traipsed into the room on rigid legs. It looked like he was trying to wag his tail, but the result was a pitiful sway. He managed to lick Myron's hand with a dry tongue.

Everyone is their own universe—a life, a dream, a hope, a sorrow, a joy, a surprise, a revelation, a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end—even when they simply walk by you on the street.

I know that my true friend will appear after my death, and my sweetheart died before I was born.

She held him spellbound," he went on, then let out a ragged breath. "So he went to his death."[

How could they do it, how could they? I don't know, but they did. They've done it before and they did it tonight and they'll do it again and when they do it - seems that only children weep.

Come hanno potuto, come hanno potuto fare una cosa simile? Non lo so, ma l'hanno fatto. L'hanno fatto prima e l'hanno fatto stasera e lo faranno ancora, e quando lo fanno... pare che piangano solo i bambini

Line for line, voices followed in simple harmony until the hymn ended in a melancholy murmur.

These are tears and I am crying. It is not a painful sensation, as I always thought it must be. It feels like the purest expression of feeling that it is possible to have. And the feeling mixes everything up together. Happiness. Sadness. Relief. Sorrow. Love. A mixture if things no psychiatrist ever felt. It is the most wonderful mixture in the world.

No truth can cure the sorrow we feel from losing a loved one. No truth, no sincerity, no strength, no kindness can cure that sorrow. All we can do is see it through to the end and learn something from it, but what we learn will be no help in facing the next sorrow that comes to us without warning.