Sadness Quotes — page 23

Forgetfulness of grief I yet may gain; In some wise may come ending to my pain; It may be yet the Gods will have me glad! Yet, Love, I would that thee and pain I had!

Human beings, in their generous endeavour to construct a hypothesis that shall not degrade a First Cause, have always hesitated to conceive a dominant power of lower moral quality than their own; and, even while they sit down and weep by …

Love's arms were wreathed about the neck of Hope, And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love drew in her breath In that close kiss and drank her whisper'd tales. They said that Love would die when Hope was gone. And Love mourn'd long, and sorrow'd …

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares,and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love, and thought, and joy.

My tender age in sorrow did begin: And still with sicknesses and shame Thou didst so punish sin, That I became Most thin. With thee

Oh, she had yet the task to learn How often woman's heart must turn To feed upon its own excess Of deep yet passionate tenderness! How much of grief the heart must prove That yields a sanctuary to love!

Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.

Renunciation remains sorrow, though a sorrow borne willingly.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o’ the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!

And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold, And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold, Saying: "Wrath by his meekness, And by his health, sickness,

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender bluebells at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets Its …

But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

A lady who sets her heart upon a lad in uniform must prepare to change lovers pretty quickly, or her life will be but a sad one.

Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true.

This melancholy London. I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po.

Shed no tear! O shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! O weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.

I would not even have him weep O'er his Italian love's last sleep. Oh, tears are a most worthless token, When hearts they would have soothed are broken.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that …

There was no gleam, no shadow, for the heavens, too, were one still, pale cloud; no sound or motion in anything but the dark river that flowed and moaned like an unresting sorrow.

Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy dead in silence like to death; Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless woe, Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it: the marble eyelids are not wet—

When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!'weep! So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

We rest. — A dream has power to poison sleep; We rise. — One wandering thought pollutes the day; We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep; Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away: It is the same! — For, be it joy or sorrow, The path of …

He knelt him down on the new-raised mound, His face was bowed on the cold damp ground, He raised his head, his tears were done, The father had prayed o'er his only son!