Quotes About Regret

Christ, seven years of college, down the drain.

Do you know the legend about cicadas? They say they are the souls of poets who cannot keep quiet because, when they were alive, they never wrote the poems they wanted to.

I myself walked at the funeral of tenderness.

What is the boy now, who has lost his ball, What, what is he to do? I saw it go Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then Merrily over-there it is in the water!

And there is another thing he has in mind like a grave Sienese face a thousand years would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly, with open eyes, he attends, blind. All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears; thinking.

He rose, and he put down The Yellow Book.He staggered—and, terrible-eyed,He brushed past the palms on the staircaseAnd was helped to a hansom outside.

Damn right I voted for him. But if I'd known then what I know now, I wouldn't have cast a vote—I'd have cast a brick.

The greatest tragedy in life is not to die, but to live a life without purpose or meaning.

O sad, sad hills! O cold, cold hearth! In sorrow he learned this truth — One may return to the place of his birth, He cannot go back to his youth.

There was a very cautious man Who never laughed or played He never risked, he never tried, He never sang or prayed. And when he on day passed away, His insurance was denied, For since he never really lived, They claimed he never really died. (Anonymous poem)

Many rebel soldiers that night would sleep on their muskets and question the value of a victory that had cost them Stonewall Jackson.

The version of you who forgot his love, a creature more lithotroph than human, failed to pull the trigger, but died on the field of honor. Some say he turned his gun on himself before you shot him." Montrose put his face in his hands. He shot himself in a duel for love of Rania. He remembered having done something like this before.

The torture of a bad conscience is the hell of a living soul.

It was one of those midsummer Sundays when everyone sits around saying, "I drank too much last night.

I don't like to see all my energies, all of my youth, wasted in fur coats and radios and slipcovers.

I once knew a word I forget That mean "I am sorry we met And I wish you the same." It sounds like your name But I haven't remember that yet.

I hid my love when young till I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly; I hid my life to my despite Till I could not bear to look at light: I dare not gaze upon her face But left her memory in each place; Where'er I saw a wild flower lie I kissed and bade my love good-bye.

While leaning over the toilet getting up his nerve, he thought that the moment before making yourself throw up must be very like the instant before suicide. You are almost content to bear the sickening headache and the torment in your stomach rather than go through that moment. But the prospect of relief made you foolhardy and you jammed your finger down your throat.

We were silent awhile and simply eyeballed one another. "Then there's nothing more to say," I said quietly. "Nothing." I should have cried then, had life not made me a stronger man. It crossed my mind to shake his hand to say goodbye, for it all seemed so final, but I did not. Too much had been said to forgive or see a way to forgiveness.

Can I ever come back here' he asked, and the Woodsman said something very strange in reply. 'Most people come back here,' he said, 'in the end

I am sorry," I whispered. "I am sorry for all of the ways that I failed you. I am sorry that I was not there to save you, or to die alongside you. I am sorry that I have kept you with me for so long, trapped in my heart, bound in sorrow and remorse. I forgive you too. I forgive you for leaving me, and I forgive you for returning. I forgive you your anger, and your grief. Let this be an end to it.

Why did you shoot him?" "You weren't around," I replied, my teeth gritted in pain. "If you'd been here I'd have shot you instead.

In the end, you have to let things go. The things you regret are the things you hold on to.

I slipped from present to past, sliding down the snake heads of memory into what was and what would never be again.