Quotes About Weeping

I drive around the streets an inch away from weeping, ashamed of my sentimentality and possible love.

Alone and rejected, Mummy Boy wept, then went to the cabinet where the snack food was kept.

She continued weeping until the heat of her tear water, the sheer velocity of its flow, finally obscured the already vague circumstances of its origins.

It is as if the soul of the continent is weeping. Why does it weep? It weeps for the bones of the buffalo. It weeps for magic that has been forgotten. It weeps for the decline of poets. It weeps for the black people who think like white people. It weeps for the Indians who think like settlers. It weeps for the children who think like adults. It weeps for the free who think like prisoners. Most of all, it weeps for the cowgirls who think like cowboys.

Outside, the rains had come, the rains that like a blizzard of guppies would pelt the creaky old house until spring. There is no weeping that can compete with the northwest rains.

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.

What the light looks like in the pear trees, in October, is a hundred teardrops of gold, the whole orchard weeping.

Contrary to what most people think, weeping isn't an uncontrollable emotion that spills into tears. It's the opposite, a channel for feelings, a way to divert them in a healthy direction.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, This that I may not weep.

O who will give me tears? Come, all ye springs, Dwell in my head and eyes; come, clouds and rain; My grief hath need of all the watery things That nature hath produced: let every vein Suck up a river to supply mine eyes, My weary weeping eyes, too dry for me, Unless they get new conduits, new supplies, To bear them out, and with my state agree.

It took all her strength not to weep. She had been weeping too much of late. It was unseemly, she knew, but she could not seem to help herself; the tears would come, sometimes over a trifle, and nothing she did could hold them back.

I hasten to laugh at everything, for fear of being obliged to weep.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept, Remembering thee.

Tell me about your Italian journey I am not ashamed I wept in that country beauty touched me I was a child once more in the womb of that country I wept I am not ashamed I have tried to return to paradise

Chorus of Clouds We are full of sighs, full of glances, We are full of laughter And sometimes we wear your faces. We are not far from you. Who knows how much of your blood rose And stained us? Who knows how many tears you have shed Because of our weeping? How much longing formed us? We play at dying, Accustom you gently to death. You, the inexperienced, who learn nothing in the nights. Many angels are given you But you do not see them.

The night sky was dark and cloudy and felt very much like her weeping heart.

Then again she wept aloud,– so bitterly that the voice of her crying pierced into the marrow of the listener's bones; – and she sobbed out the words of this poem:– Hi kurureba Sasoeshi mono wo – Akanuma no Makomo no kure no Hitori-ne zo uki! ("At the coming of twilight I invited him to return with me –! Now to sleep alone in the shadow of the rushes of Akanuma – ah! what misery unspeakable!")

It seemed she was in a cathedral—if, that is, the earth itself were to dream a cathedral into being over thousands of years of water weeping through stone.

There, weeping, a tsarevna lies locked in a cell. And Master Grey Wolf serves her very well. There, in her mortar, sweeping beneath the skies, the demon Baba Yaga flies. There Tsar Koschei, he wastes away, poring over his pale gold.

All at once, the voices began: some in slurred murmurs, some crying out loudly upon the Lord, others weeping and beating their breasts. At that time, you see, we all of us believed that God listened to such prayers.

mothers have wept less, bidding farewell to their children. At least, mine certainly did.

For the world called to the heart, which stammered to reply; life, and love, and revelry, and, most falsely, hope, called the forgetful, the human heart. Only the soul, obsessed with the journey it had made, and had still to make, pursued its mysterious and dreadful end; and carried, heavy with weeping and bitterness, the heart along.

The sky Scorched by the sun, Weeps Fecund tears.