Quotes About Tear

Qhuinn looking a Blay] A tear escaped from that eye . Welling up along the lower lid, it coalesced at the far corner, formed a crystal circle, and grew so fat it couldn't hold on to the lashes. Slipping free, it meandered downward, getting lost in dark hair at the temple.

But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

A beam of moonlight shone through a barred window set high in the wall and fell on her face. A single tear rolled down her cheek, like a liquid diamond.

How can you tear something out of your heart? Your heart isn't made of paper and your life isn't written down in ink. You can't erase the imprint of years.

The moon sheds a tear.

A smile is ever the most bright and beautiful with a tear upon it. What is the dawn without its dew?

Dios," he said, addressing himself to Jace. "What happened to you, brother? You look as if a pack of wolves tried to tear you apart." "That's either a shockingly good guess," said Jace, "or you heard about what happened.

Hate is a frequency grounded in insanity or fear. Cool your mind calm your heart. Don't let hate, tear you apart.

The dust shall never be thy bed: A pillow for thee will I bring, Stuffed with down of angel's wing.

the time it took to brush away one tear could mean the difference between saving a soldier or laying him out after death.

I saw myself, sharply, as a wanderer, an adventurer, rocking through the world, unanchored. [...] The wind of my life was blowing me away. [...] I take the blue envelope...and tear it slowly into many pieces, watching them dance in the wind, watching the wind carry them away. Yet as I turn and begin walking toward the waiting people, the wind blows some of them back on me.

The morning weighs on my shoulders with the dreadful weight of hope and I take the blue envelope which Jacques has sent me and tear it slowly into many pieces, watching them dance in the wind, watching the wind carry them away. Yet as I turn and begin walking toward the waiting people, the wind blows some of them back on me.

I take the blue envelope which Jacques has sent me and tear it slowly into many pieces, watching them dance in the wind, watching the wind carry them away. Yet, as I turn and begin walking toward the waiting people, the wind blows some of them back on me.

I think anybody that has caught before understands the grind of catching, not only the physical, the nicks, the wear and tear of squatting for nine innings night in, day out, but just the mental grind of working a pitching staff. It's demanding.

Not that I'm crazy or anything, I just want some proof that death isn't the end. Even if crazed zombies grabbed me in some dark hall one night, even if they tore me apart, at least that wouldn't be the absolute end. There would be some comfort in that.

Hail, happiness, then, and after happiness, hail not those dreams which bloat the sharp image as spotted mirrors do the face in a country-inn parlour; dreams which splinter the whole and tear us asunder and wound us and split us apart in the night when we would sleep; but sleep, sleep, so deep that all shapes are ground to dust of infinite softness, water of dimness inscrutable, and there, folded, shrouded, like a mummy, like a moth, prone let us lie on the sand at the bottom of sleep.

The Accusing Spirit, which flew up to heaven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in; and the Recording Angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word and blotted it out forever.

The entry wound cried a single tear of blood. Such an insignificant wound, but Death was nesting in it.

It's just a small tear. But it is the heaviest thing in the world.

One thing that makes art different from life is that in art things have a shape... it allows us to fix our emotions on events at the moment they occur, it permits a union of heart and mind and tongue and tear.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear,He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

The infidel may well despond, When sorrow's tear he sheds, His bosom knows no hope beyond The dust on which he treads.

He kept at true good humour's mark The social flow of pleasure's tide: He never made a brow look dark, Nor caused a tear, but when he died.

He paused again as a tear of longing rolled from cheek to lip with the sweet-salty taste of an old memory.