Quotes About Sorrow

If I look into the wings, I can see Mom standing like a statue, Medea or Lady Macbeth, one of those tragic horrors, her face zombified by the steely reflected light from my funeral pyre.

There breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray As men's are, dead.

I am the enemy you killed, my friend I knew you in this dark, for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed I parried, but my hands were loath and cold Let us sleep now.

With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed, And truthfully wrote the Mother, Tim died smiling.

If ever sorrow and suffering set their profaning marks on the youth and beauty of Miss Fairlie's face, then, and then only, Anne Catherick and she would be the twin-sisters of chance resemblance, the living reflections of one another.

The kind sorrowful eyes looked at me, for a moment, with the prescient sadness of a coming and a long farewell. I felt the answering pang in my own heart—the pang that told me I must lose her soon, and love her the more unchangeably for the loss.

Bu darbenin etkisinden kurtulabilmek ve kaderimi kabullenebilmek, kederimi yavaÅŸ yavaÅŸ yaÅŸamak, umutsuzluÄŸa kap?lmamak için elimden gelen her ÅŸeyi yapm??t?m. Yarar? olmuyor, ne kadar aÄŸlasam da yanan gözlerimdeki yaÅŸlar dinmiyordu—

Grief, Mom discovered, was not a problem you could fix, a loose screw you could tighten, a math problem you could solve, a child whose pain you could comfort. It just sat there in your stomach and didn't move. Sometimes it grew, sometimes it shrank, but it was always, always there. That was the hardest part, she said, harder than anything else, before or after. The grief doesn't leave. It becomes a part of you. Either you learn to live with it or you die.

She told him that every ring in the window for sale was a tale of woe, a ductile band of happiness that had been shaped easily into sorrow

O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

The busy bee has no time for sorrow.

Can I see anothers woe, And not be in sorrow too. Can I see anothers grief, And not seek for kind relief. Can I see a falling tear. And not feel my sorrows share, Can a father see his child, Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd. Can a mother sit and hear, An infant groan, an infant fear- No no never can it be, Never, never can it be. - On Anothers Sorrow

Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth.

Eternity is in love with the productions of time. The busy bee has no time for sorrow. The hours of folly are measur'd by the clock, but of wisdom: no clock can measure.

Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.

Because I was happy upon the heath, And smiled among the winter's snow, They clothed me in the clothes of death, And taught me to sing the notes of woe

O! he give to us his Joy That our grief he may destroy; Till our grief is fled and gone He doth sit by us and moan.

A little black thing among the snow Crying 'weep, 'weep, in notes of woe! Where are thy father & mother? say? They are both gone up to the church to pray. Because I was happy upon the heath, And smil'd among the winter's snow; They clothed me in the clothes of death, And taught me to sing the notes of woe. And because I am happy, & dance & sing, They think they have done me no injury, And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King, Who make up a heaven of our misery.

Because I was happy upon the heath, And smiled among the winter's snow, They clothed me in the clothes of death, And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

I know part of my sorrow is just disguised self-pity, I needed that exchange and I worry how I'll cope without it and whether I can replace it - if only it were as easy as buying a new dog.

I feel very sorry for myself - that is what grief is.

As I write this I feel that draining hollowing helplessness that genuine love for another person produces in you. It's at these moments that we know we are going to die.

Then Ben wailed again, hopeless and prolonged. It was nothing. Just sound. It might have been all time and injustice and sorrow become vocal for an instant by a conjunction of planets.

Knowing not grieving remembers a thousand savage and lonely streets.