Quotes About Emotions

My particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.

The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree. Sing all a green willow: Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, Sing willow, willow, willow: The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans; Sing willow, willow, willow; Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones; Lay by these: Sing willow, willow, willow; Prithee, hie thee; he'll come anon.

I didn't say free, madam. No, I didn't say that. He's bound to Octavia. CLEOPATRA For what favor? MESSENGER For the favor of sleeping in her bed. CLEOPATRA I am pale, Charmian. MESSENGER He's married to Octavia, madam. CLEOPATRA May you die of the worst disease!

Tutti gli uomini sanno dare consigli e conforto al dolore che non provano.

O, she tore the letter into a thousand half-pence; railed at herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her. 'I measure him,' says she, 'by my own spirit; for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should.

better a little chiding than a great deal of heart-break.

You hold too heinous a respect of grief. CONSTANCE. He talks to me that never had a son. KING PHILIP. You are as fond of grief as of your child. CONSTANCE. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then have I reason to be fond of grief.

we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this, that you call love, to be a sect or scion.

Saadeti tamamen idrak eden bir kimse, Ä°fadeden acizdir duyduÄŸu saadeti, Bu his onu tamamen tatmin ettiÄŸi için, Yoktur kelimelerle süslemenin imkân?. Servetini sayanlar dilencilerdir ancak, Benim aÅŸk?m o kadar fazlalaÅŸm?? artm?? ki Servetimin yar?s?n? bile saymak imkâns?z.

Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye; And when she weeps, weeps every little flower; Lamenting some enforced chastity.

Kad?nlar hem çok sever, hem korkar, bilirsin; Denktir birbirine onun korkusuyla aÅŸk?; Ya ikisi de yoktur, ya ikisi de a??r?.

The good writing of any age has always been the product of someone's neurosis, and we'd have mighty dull literature if all the writers that came along were a happy bunch of chuckleheads.

I have learned to cry again and I think perhaps that means I am a human being again. Perhaps that at least. A piece of human being but yes, a human being.

Ä°yi bir kitap... sonunda seni az?c?k yorgun b?rakmal?. Onu okurken bir sürü hayat ya??yorsun.

Loss in all of its manifestations is the touchstone of depression—in the progress of the disease and, most likely, in its origin.

Oh, Daddy, I don't know what's wrong. I've tried to grow up—to be a good little girl, as you would say, but everywhere I turn I seem to walk deeper and deeper into some terrible despair. What's wrong, Daddy? What's wrong? Why is happiness such a precious thing? What have we done with our lives so that everywhere we turn—no matter how hard we try not to—we cause other people sorrow?

Depression is a disorder of mood, so mysteriously painful and elusive in the way it becomes known to the self—to the mediating intellect—as to verge close to being beyond description.

bet gal nedera vienos meilÄ—s lyginti su kita

Those strange creepy people, all picking at their little... scabs," she had complained to me when Nathan was not around. "I hate this type of—and here I thought she used a lovely gem of a phrase—"unearned unhappiness!

In my career as a writer I have always been attracted to morbid themes—suicide, rape, murder, military life, marriage, slavery.

more often than not the person one loves from whom one withholds the most searing truths about one's self, if only out of the very human motive to spare groundless pain. But

it is more often than not the person one loves from whom one withholds the most searing truths about one's self, if only out of the very human motive to spare groundless pain.

Is it best to know about a child's death, even one so horrible, or to know that the child lives but that you will never, never see him again?