Quotes About Grief

Truth is, instead of fixing everything, the Arcadia made everything real. Camellia's gone. Lark and Gabion are far away. Queenie's buried in a pauper's grave, and Briny's heart went there with her. He's lost his mind to whiskey, and he doesn't want to come back. Not even for me. Not even for Fern. We're not enough.

news guts me out like a fish. I'm empty inside. My mama's gone from this world? She's gone from this world, and I'll never get to see her again?

It washes away the last of Rill Foss. Rill Foss is princess of Kingdom Arcadia. The king is gone, and so is the kingdom. Rill Foss has to die with it. I'm May Weathers now.

Late Hours" On summer nights the world moves within earshot on the interstate with its swish and growl, and occasional siren that sends chills through us. Sometimes, on clear, still nights, voices float into our bedroom, lunar and fragmented, as if the sky had let them go long before our birth. In winter we close the windows and read Chekhov, nearly weeping for his world. What luxury, to be so happy that we can grieve over imaginary lives.

What luxury, to be so happy that we can grieve over imaginary lives.

In winter we close the windows and read Chekhov, nearly weeping for his world. What luxury, to be so happy that we can grieve over imaginary lives.

One by one, drops fell from her eyes like they were on an assembly line - gather, fall, slide...gather, fall, slide...each one commemorating something she had lost. Hope. Faith. Confidence. Pride. Security. Trust. Independence. Joy. Beauty. Freedom. Innocence.

in the last few years American poetry has come out of a poetry of complaint, not praising, and it was initially maybe rich. And it can continue to be rich if we remember that we shouldn't write out of complaint. We should write out of grief, but not grievance. Grief is rich, ecstatic. But grievance is not -- it's a complaint, it's whining.

Today I bring you cold chrysanthemums, white as absence, long-stemmed as my grief. I stand before your grave, a few unfallen leaves overhead, the sucking mud beneath.

God-My-Father says from those three words he gave me, all other words descend, branching. That still leaves me unfit for conversation, like some deranged bird you can't tell is crying in grief or exultation, all day long repeating, 'O my God. O my love. Holy, holy, holy.' 'Three Words

Our love for people doesn't end when they pass away. More often our feelings deepen as we realize how much they mean to us and how dearly we miss them.

I learned for the first time that when we lose the people closest to us, we tend to become more like them—as if to fill immediately the unbearable lack they have left behind.

When we lose the people closest to us, we tend to become more like them -- as if to fill immediately the unbearable lack they have left behind.

I am deeply saddened by the death of my dear friend, Dudley Moore.

Dealing with the impossible, fantasy can show us what may be really possible. If there is grief, there is the possibility of consolation; if hurt, the possibility of healing; and above all, the curative power of hope. If fantasy speaks to us as we are, it also speaks to us as we might be.

Don't be afraid. The dead cannot hurt you. They give you no pain, except that of seeing your own death in their faces. And one can face that, I find.

Still, dry eyes for me. Maybe I need the remedial grief group. Maybe there's a book, The Idiot's Guide to Grief. Or Denial for Dummies.

Death, lonely death, Beneath the withered leaves.

Death, vicious death, Leave a green branch for love.

Oh, what grief not to have grief, and to spend your life on the colorless grass of the undecided path!

Life is laughter amid a rosary of death.

Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou — who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea; But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again He'd tear me where he stands.

Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.