Quotes About Sorrow

But I can't do anything for him and he can't do anything for me. We must wail in our own corners.

Oh what an ill fate it was that has made me love that man.

How could it be that I had actually kissed her cheek without enveloping her, without becoming her? How could I at that moment have refrained from kneeling at her feet and howling?

She stopped thinking so as not to cry

I feel so depressed. I have to be merry and bright while I just want to cry.

Perhaps this 'dead' feeling was also brought on by an intensification of her old secret sorrow. Perhaps one day this sorrow might end. But she did not think it would end or see how it could end.

there was a feeling as if I carried a small leaden coffin in the place of my heart

Anyway, as you say, what the hell. I know, I've been to hell, I've seen it, I've been shown round. I'll kill myself. You'll see, you'll be sorry.

The only cure here was death. They were both gone out of my life.

To lose somebody is to lose not only their person but all those modes and manifestations into which their person has flowed outwards; so that in losing a beloved one may find so many things, pictures, poems, melodies, places lost too.

But the poem was a Liebestod and although art cannot but console for what it weeps over, the completion of the poem left him sour and sick and utterly convinced of the henceforward impossibility of love.

He did not consciously wish for death but he grieved at night for some blank thing which he could not even name.

She had dreamed of a separated man, a sad austere secluded man, a man with a great sorrow, an ascetic. She was a moth that wanted to be burnt by a cold cold flame.

She has lost the instinct for happiness.

A great sword pierced Sefton's heart. She too had loved Lucas with her own kind of deep secret love, and it seemed to her in this moment that, if he had asked her, she would have gone with him anywhere.

He had lived throughout upon magic, upon romantic love in its fullest sense, and this magic, now that she was gone, seemed sometimes likely to kill him.

She dreamt she saw the Polish Rider passing slowly by and he was weeping and she called out to him, but he turned his head away. She dreamt that she was drowning in the pool of tears.

Moy felt something snap inside her as if her heart had snapped. The heart-string, she thought — what is the heart-string?

Where do they come from, these tears?

This then was love, to look and look until one exists no more, this was the love which was the same as death.

For me, nothing can ever be well again.

The pit of melancholy was a bottomless one, and he was descending fast, falling further away from the good times. Such times often seemed tantalisingly within reach; he could see them, going on all around him. His mind was like a cruel prison, giving his captive soul a sight of freedom, but no more.

You pushed me away mister. You rejected me. You tricked me and spoiled things between me and my true love. I've seen you before. Long ago, just lying there as you are now. Black, broken, dying, I was glad then and I'm glad now.

Mâine dimineaÈ›-o s?-mi par? r?u, da', cum ar zice Sick Boy, dimineaÈ›a-È™i poart? singur? de grij?.