Quotes About Grief

In der Luft zitterte noch Schreien, man hörte es nicht mehr, man sah es nur noch. Wir sahen und fühlten es alle und waren für eine Sekunde vereint in Trauer und Angst. Denn es war getötet worden, und wir sind dabei gewesen.

By walking I found out Where I was going. By intensely hating, how to love. By loving, whom and what to love. By grieving, how to laugh from the belly. Out of infirmity, I have built strength. Out of untruth, truth. From hypocrisy, I wove directness. Almost now I know who I am. Almost I have the boldness to be that man. Another step And I shall be where I started from.

A heavy wallet is lined with tears.

There is no death, daughter. People die only when we forget them,' my mother explained shortly before she left me. 'If you can remember me, I will be with you always.

There is no death, daughter. People die only when we forget them,' my mother explained shortly before she left me. 'If you can remember me, I will be with you always.

Who in the world has not yearned for a loved one, has never said, If only he or she could come back just once, just one more time...? Despite the fact that it can never happen, never ever. Surely this is the saddest thing about our mortal world, and its sadness will go on shrouding human life like a blanket of fog until its final extinction.

On the Death of his Child Dew Evaporates And all our world is dew...so dear, So fresh, so fleeting

A los duelos suceden tarde o temprano acontecimientos alegres, es ley de vida.

Day by day as autumn tanned the valley around us, now with bright frost weather, now with rain carrying the first chill of winter, my father stayed in the dusk of his grief. That sandbagged mood, I understand now, can only have been a kind of battle fatigue-the senses blasted around in him by that morning of death and the thousands of inflicting minutes it was followed by.

And I can't be running back and fourth forever between grief and high delight.

You think the dead we loved truly ever leave us? You think that we don't recall them more clearly in times of great trouble?

And Percy was shaking his brother, and Ron was kneeling beside them, and Fred's eyes stared without seeing, the ghost of his last laugh still etched upon his face.

You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don't recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble? Your father is alive in you, Harry, and shows himself plainly when you have need of him.

God can fill in every gap with His great love. If you feel unloved, choose to receive the Father's affection; if you feel insecure, run into His strong arms; if you feel depressed because of abuse, remember that your heavenly Father was grieved when you were violated. And He can restore your broken heart.

I will not say, do not weep, for not all tears are an evil.

How does a bird feel when it dies? A fish, a bug...the infinite worm? I think it weeps.

A curious scene, this low-key festivity just a day after Ma has died, but on the other hand people have to eat, life goes on. They'll be drinking and making bawdy jokes soon after you go too.

There was something humiliating, too, in a display of grief when the relationship had been unwitnessed. No, this was to be a private suffering, like lust or literature, lived out mostly in his dreams.

In every story, in every life, there are moments of death that take away our name and rename us as strangers, orphans or widows. At the moment of being unnamed, we are thrown into our story. We lose the name Friend and are given the name Reject.

This was what real grief felt like—she had never truly felt it before. All the times she had been sad, all the times she had wept in her life, all the glooms and melancholies were merely moods, mere passing whims. Grief was a different thing altogether.

It is not like a premonition of death. It is as if she died a long time ago, and she just now remembered it.

Her grief still burdened her, and she knew she would bear it the rest of her days.

Unsaid So much of what we live goes on inside- The diaries of grief, the tounge-tied aches Of unacknowledged love are no less real. For having passed unsaid What we conceal Is always more than we dare confide. Think of the letters we write our dead.

He'd found her weeping one day the previous week, huddled over a much-thumbed copy of a mystery, one of a series. In this one the heroine's lover had died. She took it as a personal affront—"I can't believe she did that! How could she do that?"—and threw the book across the room, only to retrieve it a moment later and force him to listen to her read the death scene out loud.