Quotes About Loss

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun/ And she forgot the blue above the trees,/ And she forgot the dells where waters run,/ And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;/ She had no knowledge when the day was done,/ And the new morn she saw not: but in peace/ Hung over her sweet basil evermore,/ And moisten'd it with tears unto the core.

I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving.

His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;

I sit, and moan, Like one who once had wings.

I can bear to die - I cannot bear to leave her.

There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, There in that forest did his great love cease; Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win, It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace 220

Just like that bird am I in loss of time, Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme; With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent, I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent; Still scooping up the water with my fingers, In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

I can measure the motions of bodies," Sir Isaac Newton once observed, "but I cannot measure human folly." Nor could he do so as regards his own. He was to lose

I thought the issue was settled until at the end he said, 'Listen, pal, if I can't play sports, you're going to play them for me,' and I lost part of myself to him, and a soaring sense of freedom revealed that this must have been my purpose from the first: to become a part of Phineas.

I did not cry then or ever about Finney. I did not cry even when I stood watching him being lowered into his family's straightlaced burial ground outside of Boston. I could not escape a feeling that this was my own funeral, and you do not cry in that case.

I realized that all this explained him, and it wasn't the words he said which angered me. It was only that he was so ignorant, that he knew nothing of the gypsy summer, nothing of the loss I was fighting to endure, of skylarks and splashes and petal-bearing breezes, he had not seen Leper's snails or the Charter of the Super Suicide Society; he shared nothing, knew nothing, felt nothing as Phineas had done.

Nothing endures, not a tree, not love, not even a death by violence. Changed

Nothing endures, not a tree, not love, not even a death by violence.

I once had a girl, or should I say she once had me.

1969, doscientos estadounidenses morían semanalmente en Indochina. Cuando Vietnam del Sur se rindió, en 1975, habían muerto por salvar ese país 58. 213 soldados de Estados

I got up alone the next morning in the darkness, and kissed my children good-by as they lay asleep in their beds.... [F]or the first time there was brought home to me a tiny part of that vast human misery summed up under the term of war-time separations. During the next four years, I was destined to see my children only on rare and brief occasions; and it was a loss which no victories, no reparations, no acquisitions of power could ever make good.

Douglas, I've made a few small changes to acknowledge the passing of the years. Hope you're alive and well in some parallel universe - you're sadly missed in this one. John Lloyd, Oxfordshire, 2013

The disease has survived in memory more than in any literature. Nearly all those who were adults during the pandemic have died now. Now the memory lives in the minds of those who only heard stories, who heard how their mother lost her father, how an uncle became an orphan, or heard an aunt say, "It was the only time I ever saw my father cry." Memory dies with people. The writers of the 1920s had little to say about it.

Of developed countries, Italy suffered the worst, losing approximately 1 percent of its total population.

Donohue's family operated a funeral home: "We had caskets stacked up outside the funeral home. We had to have guards kept on them because people were stealing the caskets. . . . You'd equate that to grave robbing." There were soon no caskets left to steal. Louise Apuchase remembered most vividly the lack of coffins: "A neighbor boy about seven or eight died and they used to just pick you up and wrap you up in a sheet and put you in a patrol wagon.

Katherine Anne Porter was a reporter then, on the Rocky Mountain News. Her fiancé, a young officer, died. He caught the disease nursing her, and she, too, was expected to die. Her colleagues set her obituary in type. She lived. In "Pale Horse, Pale Rider

In its wake followed a keening sound that rose from the throats of mourners like the wind.

In a world where so much of our natural heritage is being lost, why not celebrate the few bright spots where it is surviving and adapting?

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!