Quotes About Mourning

And so the Trojans buried Hector, breaker of horses.

but these lay dead on the ground, far dearer now to the vultures than to their wives.

Upon the earth appear'd, weeping, they bore Brave Hector out; and on the fun'ral pile Laying the glorious dead, applied the torch.

When Achilles heard this he sank into the black depths of despair. He picked up the dark dust in both his hands and poured it on his head...he cast himself down on the earth and lay there like a fallen giant, fouling his hair and tearing it out with his own hands...[the maidservants] beat their breasts with their hands and sank to the ground beside their royal master.

Poor wretches, what evil has come on you? Your heads and faces and the knees underneath you are shrouded in night and darkness; a sound of wailing has broken out, your cheeks are covered with tears, and the walls bleed, and the fine supporting pillars. All the forecourt is huddled with ghosts, the yard is full of them as they flock down to the underworld and the darkness. The sun has perished out of the sky, and a foul mist has come over.

Por espacio de nueve días acarrearon abundante leña; y, cuando por décima vez apuntó la aurora, que trae la luz a los mortales, sacaron llorando el cadáver del audaz Héctor, lo pusieron en lo alto de la pira y le prendieron fuego.

Someone did us all a grave injustice by implying that mourning has a distinct beginning, middle, and end.

When a mother dies, a daughter's mourning never completely ends.

Grief needs an outlet. Creativity offers one. Some psychiatrists see mourning and creativity as the perfect marriage, the thought processes of one neatly complementing the other. A child's contradictory impulses to both acknowledge and deny a parent's death represents precisely the type of rich ambiguity that inspires artistic expression.

A person was present your entire life, and then one day she disappeared and never came back. It resisted belief.

Fernando Condés, an intimate friend of Castillo. Condés was broken by Castillo's death.

After Father died, she told me that it felt strange to have hands anymore, what with no one to hold them.

This sense of absence had been growing since Molly's funeral. It was wearing into him. Last night he had woken beside his sleeping wife and had to touch his own face to be assured he remained a physical entity.

It's almost as if the dead have no value unless we know that someone they are related to is still alive and mourning them.

But for me, it is when a student has died. I find the death of a young person the most difficult and painful of times. To explain it to other young people, to see a bright future snuffed out, is just awful. I am haunted by those deaths.

My sister Edith died at the age of 43. She was the youngest sister and the funniest. I had to harrumph and snort a few times to stop the weeping.

It's not natural to outlive your child. This has always been my greatest fear.

I think ancient cultures incorporated death into the experience of life in a more natural way than we have done. In our obsessive focus on youth, on celebrity, our denial of death makes it harder for people who are grieving to find a place for that grief.

As I flew back from New Zealand to bury my mother, it occurred to me that no matter how harrowing her loss was and how keenly it will always be felt, there was, nevertheless, a sense of relief that my father, sisters and I could say a final goodbye after the longest goodbye and relief that my mum had finally been released.

We should not clap our hands and mourn, for he is out of trouble. You are still in it.

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity

There is no point in honoring the dead. I have seen too much to believe otherwise. Grieve for lost potential, the end of possibilities, the eternally silence demise of promise. Grieve for that, Fear Sengar, and you will understand, finally, how grief is but a mirror, held close to one's own face.

To grieve is the gift of the living – a gift so many of our kin have long lost.

To mourn is to feel a flower's slow death, hill bear. To bed a man is to recall the flower's bright glory.