Quotes About Sorrow

Because it's still a heartache. And nothing makes you want to die more than that.

I can't cheer up — I don't want to cheer up. It's nicer to be miserable!

She wanted—what some people want throughout life—a grief that should deeply touch her, and thus humanize and make her capable of sympathy.

Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

And when the war is done and youth stone dead, I'd toddle safely home and die--in bed.

I am now considered such a monster, that I hesitate to darken with my shadow, the doors of those I love, lest I should bring upon them misfortune.

The wars come and go in blood and tears; but whether they are bad wars, or what are comically called good wars, they are of one effect in death and sorrow.

To die, so young to die. No, no, not I, I love the warm sunny skies, light, song, shining eyes, I want no war, no battle cry, No, no, not I.

Richmond has fallen - and I have no heart to write about it... They are too many for us. Everything lost in Richmond, even our archives. Blue-black is our horizon.

Nothing should be left to an invaded people except their eyes for weeping.

A Bayonet's contrition is nothing to the dead.

Blue is the smoke of wrar, white the bones of men.

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer any more. Not the whiskey drinking Indian, nor the Marine that went to war.

I can't resist you," he said quietly. "You know that, don't you? And I'm tired of pretending I can." His expression grew more troubled. "But I don't love you, Daisy, and you can't begin to know how sorry I am about that because if I could choose anyone in this world to love it'd be you.

Pero no te amo, Daisy, y no puedes hacerte una idea de cuánto lo siento, porque si tuviera que amar a alguien, sería a ti.

in his chest, his heart seeped. It wasn`t blood that escaped - that had been shed long ago - but a thick, bile-like fluid that ran through veins that had become rivers of pain carrying a bottomless cargo of grief.

I don't love you anymore", she whispered. "I don't love you at all." His throat closed. "It's all right, sweetheart. I love you enough for both of us.

Half the people in this world have been undone by grief, in one of its forms. Some can endure it, some can't.

No, Wright wouldn't like the bird—a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that, too.

For perhaps we are like stones; our own history and the history of the world embedded in us, we hold a sorrow deep within and cannot weep until that history is sung.

At the center of/ all my sorrows/ I have felt a presence/ that was not mine alone.

I felt dead and sick inside.

All beauty must have its imperfections, all happiness its share of sorrow.

wailed when she'd