Quotes About Sorrow

For there is such a pleasure in complaining, That a philosopher I've heard maintaining One ought to seek a sorrow and be vain of it, In order to be privileged to complain of it.

ROSAURA: Hipogrifo violento que corriste parejas con el viento, ¿dónde, rayo sin llama, pájaro sin matiz, pez sin escama, y bruto sin instinto natural, al confuso laberinto de esas desnudas peñas te desbocas, te arrastras y despeñas? Quédate en este monte, donde tengan los brutos su Faetonte; que yo, sin más camino que el que me dan las leyes del destino, ciega y desesperada bajaré la cabeza enmarañada de este monte eminente,

Usted siempre habitará mis sueños,y se ocultará en el remaje de mis pestañas para que yo lo descubra acechando con pena el vaivén de mi eterno dormir.

Sandi couldn't bear to read about other people falling in love and having babies while her own arms and worms were so painfully empty.

Seanabhean is ea mise anois go bhfuil cos léi insan uaigh is an chos eile ar a bruach. Is mó bogradh is cruatan curtha agam díom ón gcéad lá do saolaíodh me go dtí an lá atá inniu ann. Dá mbeadh 'fhios agam go mbeadh a leath, ná a thrian, i ndán dom ní bheadh mo chroí ná m'intinn chomh haerach ná chomh misníúil is do bhí i dtosach mo shaoil.

Dead indeed is the heart from which the balmy air of the sea cannot banish sorrow and grief.

Piangendo [...] ci si pulisce meglio che tuffandosi nel lago più puro. Si posa il fardello sul marciapiede del binario d'arrivo.

I failed him. He needed me and I failed him. God, Roger, how am I going to bear this, what am I going to do?

I'm sorry I laughed...I know it isn't funny for you. It was incredibly stupid of me to laugh. Does it hurt a lot anywhere? 'Not really,' I said. 'Only a bit in your soul?' 'Maybe a bit.' 'Let it sink,' he said. 'Just leave it. You can't use it for anything.

She looks at me, this is not what she had expected, she sniffs at the food and only slowly starts to eat, swallows each mouthful with demonstrative gloom, and then turns to look at me again, a long look, with those eyes, sighs and goes on, as if she were emptying the poisoned chalice. Spoiled dog.

The desire of the moth for the star,Of the night for the morrow,The devotion to something afarFrom the sphere of our sorrow.

The Pilgrim of Eternity [Lord Byron], whose fameOver his living head like heaven is bent,An early but enduring monument,Came, veiling all the lightnings of his songIn sorrow.

Alas! that all we loved of him should be,But for our grief, as if it had not been,And grief itself be mortal!

Sorrow, terror, anguish, despair itself are often the chosen expressions of an approximation to the highest good. Our sympathy in tragic fiction depends on this principle; tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain. This is the source also of the melancholy which is inseparable from the sweetest melody. The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.

As long as skies are blue, and fields are green Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow

We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell Of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever Should come near.

I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear,— Till death like sleep might steal on me And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

One word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdain'd For thee to disdain it. One hope too like dispair For prudence to smother, I can give not what men call love: But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And heaven rejects not: The desire of the moth for the star, The devotion of something afar From the sphere of our sorrow?

And others came... Desires and Adorations, Winged Persuasions and veil'd Destinies, Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies; And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, Came in slow pomp; the moving pomp might seem Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.

And death shall be the last embrace of her who takes the life she gave, even as a mother folding her child, says, 'Leave me not again.

I heard, as all have heard, the various story Of human life, and wept unwilling tears.

GözyaÅŸlar? için fazla derin" bir keder bu.

Then she arose, and smiled on me with eyes Serene yet sorrowing

Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene The actors or spectators? Great and mean Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow. As long as skies are blue and fields are green, Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. - Adonais