Quotes About Melancholy

This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.

I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life.

Sheep In Fog The hills step off into whiteness. People or stars Regard me sadly, I disappoint them. The train leaves a line of breath. O slow Horse the colour of rust, Hooves, dolorous bells ---- All morning the Morning has been blackening, A flower left out. My bones hold a stillness, the far Fields melt my heart. They threaten To let me through to a heaven Starless and fatherless, a dark water.

I just sat there with the whole summer turning sour in my mouth.

My drink was wet and depressing. Each time I took another sip it tasted more and more like dead water

I am in black, dressed more and more often in black now.

Dusk hoods me in blue now, like a Mary. O colour of distance and forgetfulness!

It's just ordinary hopelessness.

My heart bleeds buttermilk. -Daine

The last notes dripped from the mandolin and melted like magic coinage into nothing. The nothing contained the hall, the limbo that was blind as Cupid, did not breathe, held to its own fancies, its own hidden wants and musings.

You know it's a bad sign when the theme song from Titanic describes your relationship.

I know not why there is such a melancholy feeling attached to the remembrance of past happiness, except that we fear that the future can have nothing so bright as the past.

The stone bench is gray. The grass is gray. My life is dirty gray

Perhaps this is what the stories meant when they called somebody heartsick. Your heart and your stomach and your whole insides felt hollow and empty and aching.

I could sit right here and think a thousand miles away, Since I had the blues this bad, I can't remember the day...

Sólo alcanzaba a advertir la casa triste, que Rema estaba como cansada, que apenas llovía y las cosas tenían, sin embargo, algo de húmedo y abandonado

La melancolía de una vida demasiado corta para tantas bibliotecas, etc. La falta de experiencia es inevitable, si leo a Joyce estoy sacrificando automáticamente otro libro y viceversa

Chuva, chuva. Continuaria Berthe Trépat tocando piano?

Realmente nu m? mâhneÅŸte din cale-afar? c? nu l-am citit pe Jouhandeau în întregime, cel mai mult m? încearca melancolia ca viaÅ£a e prea scurt? pentru atâtea biblioteci.

pero escuchar a Billie Holiday era una tristeza hermosa que daba ganas de acostarse y llorar de felicidad (...)

a lo sumo la melancolía de una vida demasiado corta para tantas bibliotecas [...]

Música, melancólico alimento del alma para los que vivimos de amor.

y uno está tan triste, Horacio, porque todo es hermoso...

Como siempre a esta altura del año, me invade un gran deseo de volver a ver a los viejos amigos, tan alejados ya por esas mil razones que la vida nos va obligando a acatar poco a poco. Usted también, creo, es sensible a la amable melancolía de una sobremesa en la que nos hacemos la ilusión de haber sido menos usados por el tiempo, como si los recuerdos comunes nos devolvieran por un rato el verdor perdido.