Quotes About Tears

I cried, steady tears, like rain. And, like rain, they brought ease.

I am not unaware of the saying that more tears have been shed over wishes granted than wishes denied.

And tears are heard within the harp I touch.

Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe.

When women and men can shed an equal quantity of tears in public, that's when we'll have equal power.

Do not be doing that for me," Osca said, "for if it were you lying there, and I standing over you, do you think it's one tear I'd be weeping for you?" "I know well enough that you would not, for Dearmid O'Dyna stands between us even now," said Finn, "But as for me, I will weep for whom I choose to weep for!

We passed a small-boat harbor, gleaming white on blue, and a long pier draped with fishermen. Everything was as pretty as a postcard. The trouble with you, I said to myself: you're always turning over the postcards and reading the messages on the underside. Written in invisible ink, in blood, in tears, with a black border around them, with postage due, unsigned, or signed with a thumbprint.

Cuando quiero llorar, no lloro, y a veces lloro sin querer...

O silêncio é como uma taça vazia que, por ser vazia, permite que a pessoa que está sofrendo recolha nela todas as suas lágrimas, que nós não conhecemos.

Kagome taught me how to smile, how to believe in people. Kagome was the reason I could make friends, and rely on those friends. To shed tears for others, to understand true strength and kindness…They're all things I learned from Kagome. Kagome was born to meet me, and I was born for her!

Il Museo delle Lacrime significava molto di più di quanto il suo nome potesse suggerire. Non si trattava solo di file di bottigliette di vetro identiche, malgrado già questo, se ci pensavi bene, diceva molto sull'uguaglianza. Si trattava di persone che tastavano di aggrapparsi alla felicità che avevano conosciuto.

Sometimes when she told stories about the past her eyes would get teary from all the memories she had, but they weren't tears. She wasn't crying. They were just the memories, leaking out.

Every night passes grief-stricken, weeping.

I feel her tears on my face. They feel the same as mine.

Birdenbire bo?az?na hafif bir g?c?k geldi?ini ve gözlerinden fark?nda olmadan ya?lar bo?anmaya ba?lad???n? hissetti. Bu, öyle hummal?, h?çk?r?kl?, buhranl? bir a?lay?? de?ildi. Bir yerde birikti?i anla??lan gözya?lar?, kendilerine dökülecek bir mecra bulmu?lar, gayet sakin, hatta biraz tatl? bir ?ekilde iki yana??ndan yast??a süzülüyorlard?.

Love is not a joy; it is a deep wonderful pain. It is a very deep, tearing, wonderful pain. Something within you should tear; not just something, everything within you should tear. Only then you know what love is. If it feels pleasant, that's not love; it's just convenience. Maybe you felt a little affection. If you have ever loved, everything inside you tears apart, really tears apart. It's painful but wonderful. That's how it is.

I clung to my tears, refusing to give them to him.

If life was a movie and someone asked you what kind of a movie it was the best answer would be: it's a movie that makes you laugh and cry at the same time. Grandpa knew that.

I can't believe in my own sadness, I can't take it seriously. I watch myself crying in the mirror, intrigued by the sight of tears.

Time passed. I gardened, I read, and so on. I had already begun—in a modest way, and beginning with a few pieces of animal jewellery from Richard—the trade in second-hand artifacts that, as it turned out, would stand me in good stead in the coming decades. A semblance of normality had been installed. But unshed tears can turn you rancid. So can memory. So can biting your tongue. My bad nights were beginning. I couldn't sleep.

Occasionally I do cry for no reason, as it says you are supposed to. But I can't believe in my own sadness, I can't take it seriously. I watch myself crying in the mirror, intrigued by the sight of tears.

She wanted to cry but the tears would not come. They seemed to flood her chest, and they were hot tears that burned under her bosom, but they would not flow.

Home was five blocks away. She would not wait for the sobbing Peter to harness the buggy, would not wait for Dr. Meade to drive her home. She could not endure the tears of the one, the silent condemnation of the other. She went swiftly down the dark front steps without her coat or bonnet and into the misty night. She rounded the corner and started up the long hill toward Peachtree Street, walking in a still wet world, and even her footsteps were as noiseless as a dream.

A hard little pain had started in her heart and was traveling slowly up toward her throat where it would become a lump and the lump would soon become tears.