Quotes About Melancholy

It's a song of a merryman, moping mum,Whose soul was sad, and whose glance was glum,Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a lady.

On a tree by a river a little tomtitSang "Willow, titwillow, titwillow!"And I said to him, "Dicky-bird, why do you sitSinging 'Willow, titwillow, titwillow!'"Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?" I cried,"Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?"With a shake of his poor little head he replied,"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"

From childhood's hour I have not been. As others were, I have not seen. As others saw, I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone.

No grief so soft, no pain so sweet, as love's delicious melancholy.

I love jazz music and sad music.

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.

I love the autumn for its sense of melancholy

In my great melancholy, I loved life, for I love my melancholy.

And my life went to pieces, like a love letter in the rain.

Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.

I love Billy Joel. I cry sometimes when I hear 'The Stranger.' 'You May Be Right' may be one of the greatest songs ever written.

I have a taste for a kind of melancholy and for being an absolute victim of love.

He stared blankly out of the window, at the greyness and blackness of the sky. What a day! What a climate! Why did any sane person live in England? He felt positively suicidal.

Moreover, he was loth to be thus disturbed in his sombre reverie.

Why should I be melancholy? England wasn't in sight yet.

and Andy, gloomy and self-devouring, sat at his desk and chewed the cud of memory.

The music touched her, haunted her, because it was so beautiful and because she had never waltzed to it in her true love's arms. And never would.

Suddenly it was fall, the season of death, the anniversary of things-going-to-hell.

Maybe she'd been drinking too much of the super-sweet Mexican Coca-Cola they had down here. Or maybe she was just tired, alone, and far from home. Because somewhere in the brittle, concrete center of Azrael's dark heart, something was melting.

Her mind's always spinning, thinking about the next thing, the next danger. It's a good quality, he guesses, but an exhausting one.

Top-heavy was the ship as a dinnerless student with all Aristotle in his head.

There was a library and it is ashes. Let its long length assemble. Than its stone walls its paper walls are thicker; armoured with learning, with philosophy, with poetry that drifts or dances clamped though it is in midnight. Shielded with flax and calfskin and a cold weight of ink, there broods the ghost of Sepulchrave, the melancholy Earl, seventy-sixth lord of half-light.

He could now inhabit the world of words, with, at the back of his melancholy, a solace he had not known before

His habitual melancholy was changing day by day into something more sinister. There were moments when he would desecrate the crumbling and mournful mask of his face with a smile more horrible than the darkest lineaments of pain. Across the stoniness of his eyes a strange light would pass for a moment, as though the moon were flaring on the gristle, and his lips would open and the gash of his mouth would widen in a dead, climbing curve