Quotes About Sorrow

Well. We are settled then." He turns to go, stops. "I was sorry to hear of Patroclus' death. He fought bravely today. Did you hear he killed Sarpedon?" Achilles' eyes lift. They are bloodshot and dead. "I wish he had let you all die.

HE WEEPS as he lifts me onto our bed. My corpse sags; it is warm in the tent, and the smell will come soon. He does not seem to care. He holds me all night long, pressing my cold hands to his mouth.

The never-ending ache of love and sorrow. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made him face his choice alone. But not in this one. He would sail to Troy and I could follow, even into death. Yes , I whispered. Yes.

Había contemplado la muerte en pinturas y en los tapices, y también en las figuras negras de las hidrias, pero jamás había visto la vibración del estertor, el ahogo, la desesperación. El olor a sangre.

I lay back and tried not to think of the minutes passing. Just yesterday we had had a wealth of them. Now each was a drop of heartsblood lost.

And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth while another is gone.

When he was gone, would I be like Achilles, wailing over his lost lover Patroclus? I tried to picture myself running up and down the beaches, tearing at my hair, cradling some scrap of old tunic he had left behind. Crying for the loss of half my soul.

Patroclo —dice—, Patroclo, Patroclo. Lo repite una y otra vez hasta que la palabra es solo un sonido. Ulises se arrodilla y le insta a comer y beber. Le invade una ira feroz al oír eso y está a punto de matarle, pero para eso debería dejarme y no puede. Me sujeta con tanta fuerza que casi noto el latido de su corazón, como el aleteo de una mariposa. Es un eco, el último jirón de mi espíritu aún sujeto a mi cuerpo. Un suplicio.

Sevmemi? olanlar, hayatlar? ac? ve deh?etle geçmi? olanlar içinse insan?n içip unutabilece?i kara nehir Lethe vard?. Bir parça teselli.

The death I had put into his hand.

His voice then was like a balm upon my raw skin. I yearned for his hands, for all of him, mortal though he was, distant and dying though he would always be.

The tears of those of naiad blood can flow for eternity, and I thought it might take an eternity to speak all my grief.

Within him, there was an ocean's worth of grief; which could only be stopped for a moment, never emptied.

The instant of birth is exquisite. Pain and joy are one at this moment. Ever after, the dim recollection is so sweet that we speak to our children with a gratitude they never understand. We speak to our parents with a sorrow unfamiliar until the day they are dying.

She pressed the veil against her cheeks, letting it drink up her tears.

to wish to forget how much you loved someone—and then, to actually forget—can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart.

96. For a prince of blue is a prince of blue because keeps 'a pet sorrow, a blue-devil familiar, that goes with him everywhere' (Lowell, 1870) This is how a prince of blue becomes a pain devil.

For to wish to forget how much you loved someone—and then, to actually forget—can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart.

For to wish to forget how much you loved someone - and then, to actually forget--can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart. I have heard that this pain can be converted, as it were, by accepting "the fundamental impermanence of all things." This acceptance bewilders me: sometimes it seems an act of will; at others, of surrender. Often I feel myself to be rocking between them (seasickness).

Sitting in my office before teaching a class on prosody, trying not to think about you, about my having lost you. But how can it be? How can it be? Was I too blue for you. Was I too blue. I look down at my lecture notes: Heártbréak is a spondee. Then I lay my head down on the desk and start to weep.—Why doesn't this help?

She has always cried such enormous tears, like heavy pearls, quite at odds with the slightness of her frame.

All I was aware of was this hole, this gaping hole where my heart should have been. I read somewhere once that your heart is supposed to be the same size as your clenched fist, but this hole felt far bigger. It seemed to expand over my whole upper body and it felt cold, vacant - the cooling wind seemed to cut right through it. I felt frail and insubstantial, as if the wind could have blown me away.

prepare her for the next world. They wept as they did so, not because

How were they to know that Hamnet was the pin holding them together? That without him they would all fragment and fall apart, like a cup shattered on the floor?