Quotes About Mourning

A four foot box, a foot for every year.

and wailed aloud for their lord's decease. A Geat woman too sang out in grief; with hair bound up, she unburdened herself

No trembling harp, no tuned timber, no tumbling hawk swerving through the hall, no swift horse pawing the courtyard. Pillage and slaughter have emptied the earth of entire peoples. And so he mourned as he moved about the world, deserted and alone, lamenting his unhappiness day and night, until death's flood brimmed up in his heart.

It is always better to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning. For every one of us, living in this world means waiting for our end. Let whoever can win glory before death. When a warrior is gone, that will be his best and only bulwark.

Catastrophe is numerical. Loss is singular, one beloved at a time.

only grieving can heal grief; the passage of time will lessen the acuteness, but time alone, without the direct experience of grief, will not heal it.

One of the few times I saw my mother cry was when Lennon died, and the other time was when Elvis died.

In Shakespeare's plays, the mourner hastening to bury his friend is all the time colliding with the reveller hastening to his wine.

The news of Mr. Breitbart's death came as a surprise to me when I was informed of it this morning. My prayers go out to Mr. Breitbart's family as they cope during this very difficult time.

Grief is a matter of the heart and soul. Grieve your loss, allow it in, and spend time with it.

I felt so lonesome I most wished I was dead. The stars were shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to die;

Do not bring your dog. (advice for attending a funeral)

She warn't particular; she could write about anything you choose to give her to write about just so it was sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died, she would be on hand with her "tribute" before he was cold. She called them tributes.

THEY bury their dead in vaults, above the ground. These vaults have a resemblance to houses—sometimes to temples; are built of marble, generally; are architecturally graceful and shapely; they face the walks and driveways of the cemetery; and when one moves through the midst of a thousand or so of them and sees their white roofs and gables stretching into the distance on every hand, the phrase 'city of the dead' has all at once a meaning to him.

The fire was nothing now but a funeral of smoke, dead and dying, simultaneously.

Still in disbelief, she started to dig. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't be dead. He couldnt- Within seconds, snow was carved into her skin. Frozen blood was cracked across her hands. Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces. Each half was glowing, and beating under all that white.

I fell to my knees, hugged Uncle Roman, and wept. July 1, 1941 The day after Uncle Roman's funeral, I went out to take Krasa to the pasture as usual, but a crowd of people stood in front of our church, hugging one another, laughing, and crying.

GIRLEEN: Coleman. Father Welsh Walsh Welsh... WELSH: Welsh. GIRLEEN: Welsh. I know. Don't be picking me up. How is all? COLEMAN: We've just stuck our dad in the ground. GIRLEEN: Grand, grand. I met the postman on the road with a letter for Valene.

I went back to those graves not long afterward and found as I stood there that sadness was a very heavy thing. My body weighed twice what it had only a moment earlier, as if those graves were pulling me down toward them.

The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to him alone, and is, therefore, absolutely and irretrievably lost.

There is concern in the hearts of many for the recovery of apostolic power. But how can we recover apostolic power while neglecting apostolic practice? How can we expect the power to flow if we do not prepare the channels? Fasting is a God-appointed means for the flowing of His grace and power that we can afford to neglect no longer. The fast of this age is not merely an act of mourning for Christ's absence, but an act of preparation for His return.

It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined. Over the years, as the memory of Sophie Mol ... slowly faded, the Loss of Sophie Mol grew robust and alive. It was always there. Like a fruit in season. Every season. As permanent as a government job.

Trees raised their naked, mottled branches to the sky like mourners stilled in attitudes of grief.

Silence hung in the air like secret loss.