Quotes About Desolation

Tis like the dripping of some stagnant rain From the housetops of a ruined city Upon the flagstones. Not one petal clings Upon the stalk of life or memory. Stain Not one pale thought with blushes ; my soul's dead As a corpse flung out of the tideway on The stinking flats of London mud.

The stunned knight came upon a field Where nothing lived, just scattered skulls and bones. What battle had been fought, what did it yield? No one remembers why the screams and groans. Why are you mute field? Why overgrown with grasses of oblivion?

I've lived to see my longings die I've lived to se my longings die: My dreams and I have grown apart; Now only sorrow haunts my eye, The wages of a bitter heart. Beneath the storms of hostile fate, My flowery wreath has faded fast; I live alone and sadly wait To see when death will come at last. Just so, when the winds in winter moan And snow descends in frigid flakes, Upon a naked branch, alone, The final leaf of summer shakes!

The man is a cabin, poorly kept.

The building he took her to was an abandoned foundry out in the countryside and rain leaked in everywhere.

Before their hurried flight from the city two weeks earlier, the Taliban had left the weapons and smeared feces on the walls and windows. Every photograph, every painting, every rosebush had been torn up, smashed, stomped, ruined. Nothing beautiful had been left behind.

On the desert, there was no October; there was only summer and hell. "Where

Before there was a proper understanding and a sense of God's presence, the idea that everything would one day end was utterly desolating.

Loneliness is the worst of all tortures, the worst of all sufferings.

Mountains and deserts, with their sparse life at the limit of existence, make one restless and disconsolate; one becomes an explorer in an intellectual realm as well as in a physical one.

My desolation does begin to make A better life.

I am excused, I think, for wondering if I am the only one alive this afternoon with no other living soul who wants to cling to me, no other soul who'll let me dampen her. The day has ended and the light has snuffed. I'm left to trudge into the final evening with nobody to loop their soaking hands through mine.

loneliness as solitude with self-pity thrown in.

Strolling down a white-graveled walk to the cliff above the ocean, he let his eyes rove aimlessly over the expanse of sea and sand: The icy-looking whitecaps, the blinking, faraway sails of boats, the sweeping, constantly searching gulls. Desolation. Eternal, infinite. Like Dostoevski's conception of eternity, a fly circling about a privy, the few signs of life only emphasized the loneliness.

To die on a dying Earth - I'd live, if only to weep.

In the English language there are orphans and widows, but there is no word for the parents who loses a child.

There was something inexpressibly dreary about the Casino when it was empty, she thought. You could see all of it for what it was worth, and it was never good to see anything like that.

Bevo a una casa distrutta, alla mia vita sciagurata, a solitudini vissute in due e bevo anche a te: all'inganno di labbra che tradirono, al morto gelo dei tuoi occhi, ad un mondo crudele e rozzo, ad un Dio che non ci ha salvato.

As for the environment, that too, would object, backing up the pessimism of its people, which was what happened where I lived where the whole place always seemed to be in the dark. It was as if the electric lights were turned off, always turned off, even though dusk was over so they should have been turned on yet nobody was turning them on and nobody noticed either, they weren't on.

No home anymore. Nowhere to return. My house is a ruin, a cemetery. You may yearn for the grave, but just try living there.

Imprisoned within the impassable walls of the locked, lifeless polar world, all that is left for her is a deathly cold isolation, numbing her senses and freezing her brain. The world lost, the light lost, the mind lost, the coldly gleaming, relentlessly moving ice has become her sole and final reality.

The years passed like the steps of a staircase leading lower and lower. I did not walk any more in the sun or hear the songs of larks like crystal fountains playing against the sky. No hand enfolded mine in the warm clasp of love. My thoughts were again solitary, disintegrate, disharmonious – the music gone. I lived alone in a few pleasant rooms, feeling my life run out aimlessly with the tedious hours: the life of an old maid ran out of my fingertips.

Don't you like the sea any more?' she asked. [...] 'No,' said the man. 'I don't think so. I think I hate it.' But then, feeling the hollow, vague coldness inside the glass, and going away from the sea, there was nothing at all left and nothing mattered at all. 'I don't feel anything about it,' he said. 'I don't feel anything about anything.

The world had become an arctic prison from which no escape was possible, all its creatures trapped as securely as were the trees, already lifeless inside their deadly resplendent armour.