Quotes About Grief

The pair were, in truth, but the ashes of their former fires. To the hot sorrow of the previous night had succeeded heaviness; it seemed as if nothing could kindle either of them to fervour of sensation any more.

Jude waited at all the evening downstairs. At a very late hour the intelligence was bought to him that a child had been prematurely born, and that it, like the others, was a corpse.

How Great My Grief How great my grief, my joys how few, Since first it was my fate to know thee! —Have the slow years not brought to view How great my grief, my joys how few, Nor memory shaped old times anew, Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee How great my grief, my joys how few, Since first it was my fate to know thee?

No. You know—having to look. It's always bad, but you get so you can function anyway, as long as they're dead. The hospital, interviews, that's worse. You have to shake it off and keep on thinking. I don't believe I could do it now. I could make myself look, but I'd shut down the thinking.

M]en have no pleasure, (but on the contrary a great deal of grief) in keeping company, where there is no power to over-awe them all.

Where shall I turn, what shall I do?' are the voices of people grieving. Idleness is torture. In all times and places, nature abhors a vacuum.

Where shall I turn, what shall I do? are the voices of people grieving. Idleness is torture. In all times and places, nature abhors a vacuum.

The dogs were really keening now, like Irish widows.

Then he looked by him, and was ware of a damsel that came riding as fast as her horse might gallop upon a fair palfrey. And when she espied that Sir Lanceor was slain, then she made sorrow out of measure, and said, O Balin ! two bodies hast thou slain and one heart, and two hearts in one body, and two souls thou hast lost.

ce que nous appelons la douleur n'est peut-être pas tant le regret que nous éprouvons de cette impossibilité de voir les morts revenir à la vie que notre impuissance à le souhaiter.

A man's dying is more the survivors' affair than his own.

My mother was informing me, by mail, that she was about to die, and would never see me again.

Her grief is still too young to behave itself, so she never lets it out.

LONG, long before Mrs. Lewis cooked for the Burbanks, a tree fell on Mr. Lewis in the woods and killed him in his "prime." Mrs. Lewis hoped to be one with him again in what she called their eternal home, but the suspended relationship left her with a mixed bag of acid sayings, bitter observations and chilly maxims.

You think it's so great to die and make everyone cry and carry on. Well it ain't.

When my husband died, people kept telling me not to cry. People kept trying to help me to forget. But I didn't want to forget... So I realize, that if it's hard for me, how much harder it must be for you.

It's time for you to give yourself the love, attention, loyalty, and care you've been trying to get from others your whole life. Grief has you gripped tightly by the ankles, and she may not let you go too soon. There's nowhere to go but home to yourself. This simple gesture of giving yourself your full attention when sorrow is shaking you to the bone promises to carve depth and kindness into the core of who you are—more than anything else I know.

Grief does not change you. It reveals you. JOHN GREEN

Memory is a slippery thing. When something terrible happens to you, like the loss of someone you love...memory can turn into a soft blanket that hides you from the loss.

I previously had in my head but not in my heart—and I will stay with this sadness as best I can.

I would have preferred raised stones as markers," she said simply, and he understood that she was confiding a deeply private thing to him. "I imagined something upright, tall, with chiseled angels rising from it. I wanted a curved elaborate script to spell their names, a poem or a prayer carved into marble. I wanted a building built. A mausoleum.: She sighed. "I wanted something as magnificent as grief.

Grief is healing, so grieve. But regret is poison. No looking back.

Conner hadn't liked leaving the gravesite with his father still not buried. But he'd learned from his grandmother's funeral that you have to go. It's expected. Nobody hangs around the cemetary. Grief—a little or a lot—is tucked into your pocket and carried away.

Why is eight years old middle-aged?" he asked a detective one day. When the man asked what Tim meant, he said, "Laura died at sixteen. For her, eight was middle-aged.