Quotes About Sorrow

I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come just the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your door and say, 'May I come in?' is not true laughter. No! He is a king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person, he choose no time of suitability. He say, 'I am here.

We women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise above smaller matters when the mother-spirit is invoked; I felt this big, sorrowing man's head resting on me, as though it were that of the baby that some day may lie on my bosom, and I stroked his hair as though he were my own child. I never thought at the time how strange it all was.

And, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he died, a gallant gentleman.

Being proposed to is all very nice and all that sort of thing, but it isn't at all a happy thing when you have to see a poor fellow, whom you know loves you honestly, going away and looking all broken hearted, and to know that, no matter what he may say at the moment, you are passing out of his life.

Oh, friend John, it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes and troubles, and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to the tune he play.

For me, I say no, but then I am old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair places, his song of birds, his music and his love, lie far behind. You others are young. Some have seen sorrow, but there are fair days yet in store. What say you?

Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall

Safe in his embrace, I wept for my lost Sanity.

He wished he had never come to London. He wished he had never undertaken to revive English magic. He wished he had stayed at Hurtfew Abbey, reading and doing magic for his own pleasure. None of it, he thought, was worth the loss of forty books.

Something about the goat dancing made me want to cry.

Quando sei triste hai bisogno di sentire il tuo dolore fatto musica

Lisa's eyes, once so magnetic, now just look empty.

Wilson has to leave early. He got the call earlier this morning: there is a bed for his wife in a nearby hospice. If she is going to take it, she must move today. The doctors still don't understand what is wrong with her, only that her self and her strength are ebbing away, and there seems no stopping it. Wilson's afternoon will be spent getting his wife, with whom he's traveled the world, ready for her final journey.

I'm losing my mind without you.

The feel of her skin against his was heaven. And hell. He glanced down at their joined hands, hers so pale, so tiny and delicate. Lucien remembered the feel of those hands on his body, their gentle exploration belying her ravenous hunger for him. Knowing he would soon lose her touch forever made his heart ache.

Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. --from Daddy, written 12 October 1962

The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.

Why is crying so pleasurable? I feel clean, absolutely purged after it. As if I had a grief to get over with, some deep sorrow.

My hours are married to shadow.

A second wave collapsed over my feet, lipped with white froth, and the chill gripped my ankles with a mortal ache.

How long can I be a wall, keeping the wind off? How long can I be Gentling the sun with the shade of my hand, Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon? The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow Lap at my back ineluctably. How shall it soften them, this little lullaby?

It didn't seem to be summer any more. I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together, and the big white hotel towel I had dragged down with me lay under my head, numb as a snowdrift.

White Godiva, I unpeel -- Dead hands, dead stringencies.