Quotes About Lament

There is a chill deeper than that of death, In the return of the beloved and not of love. And there is no warmth for it But the warmth of a world which needs more than the sun-- Or the warmth of lament for beauty, Which is graven on many stones.

But, as once Gilgamesh, bringing back the magic herb from the Western Land (cf. pl. XIX), was robbed of his treasure by the demon-serpent, so Hölderlin's poem dies away in a painful lament, which tells us that his descent to the shadows will be followed by no resurrection in this world:

He ain't gettin' nowhere and he's losin' his share, He must have gone crazy out there.—Michael Burton, "Night Rider's Lament

He had wasted the span of my entire life.

It felt like betrayal, but in truth it was simply Muhammed Bruce's lament for the passing of an era. A time when Europeans had roamed the earth in pursuit of adventure, largely oblivious to the lives and laws of the people in the countries they picked through like cherries. Spitting out the pits. Just like my parents. They had stomped on the world like the Burtons of their era, only worse somehow because they did not think that their shoes left marks.

O Miss Bailey!Unfortunate Miss Bailey!

He felt sad, sad.

Things have got to be wrong in order that they may be deplored.

When I was born I did lament and cry And now each day doth shew the reason why.

Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.

A common lament of the World War II generation is the absence today of personal responsibility

wailed when she'd

Trapped for days, years, centuries maybe. Dead, but not allowed to die. Alive, but as good as dead.

Dead, but not allowed to die.

If only I knew... If only baby... If only...

from the beginning, through the middle years and up to the end: too bad, too bad, too bad.

I was gifted, am gifted. Sometimes I looked at my hands and realized that I could have been a great pianist or something. But what have my hands done? Scratched my balls, written checks, tied shoes, pushed toilet levers, etc. I have wasted my hands. And my mind.

We've all got a black book of missed opportunities.

And it came to pass that Enoch looked upon the residue of the people, and he wept. And he beheld, and lo, the heavens wept also and shed forth their tears as the rain upon the mountains.

Now we will all die. What a pity. I haven't done half the wicked things I wanted to do, and the ones I have done I haven't done anything like enough.

Life is always a novel. Our existence may cease to be a song; it may cease even to be a beautiful lament. Our existence may not be an intelligible justice, or even a recognizable wrong. But our existence is still a story. In the fiery alphabet of every sunset is written, "to be continued in our next.

She supposed that there were some things, some lost things, some things that could never be recovered, that would always be regretted; mourned; grieved over.

I will complain, yet praise; I will bewail, approve: And all my sowre-sweet dayes I will lament, and love.

I wish I could stand on a busy corner, hat in hand, and beg people to throw me all their wasted hours.