Sadness Quotes — page 7

He who died at Azan sends This to comfort all his friends:— Faithful friends! It lies I know Pale and white and cold as snow; And ye say, 'Abdallah’s dead!' Weeping at the feet and head.

In the first days Of my distracting grief, I found myself As women wish to be who love their lords.

The pastime of light minds Is mocking others' grief.

There's nae sorrow there, John, There's neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair, In the land o' the leal.

The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?

In short, if your body or mind Or your soul or your purse come to grief, You need only get drunk, and you'll find Complete and immediate relief.

A while she stood Transformed by grief to marble, and appeared Her own pale monument; but when she breathed The secret anguish of her wounded soul, So moving were the plaints! they would have soothed The stooping falcon to suspend his …

You could not give me toys in those bleak days; So when my playmates proudly boasted theirs, You caught me to the shelter of your arms, And taught me how to laugh away my tears.

We read of strong men bowed down with woe, weeping as women weep, turning homewards in the hear-sickness of unavailing search, or with a certainty worse than suspense.

The world is nearly all parcelled out, and what there is left of it is being divided up, conquered and colonised. To think of these stars that you see overhead at night, these vast worlds which we can never reach. I would annex the planets …

Flow my tears, fall from your springs, Exil'd for ever: let me mourn Where night's black bird her sad infamy sings, There let me live forlorn.

Christians well know that the much-decorated statue of the Church, as it now stands, is not of pure chiseled marble, but of clay, cemented together by blood and tears and hardened in the fires of hatred and persecution.

With living colours give my verse to glow: The sad memorial of a tale of woe!

Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies, But stranger still is Lost . ...Song of my soul, my voice is dead, Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in

Love quickly is pall'd, Tho' with labour 'tis gain'd; Wine never does cloy Tho' with ease 'tis obtain'd. We sing while you sigh, We laugh while you weep;

You have lost a child, a dear, dear child. I have lost the only earthly object of my affection.... I have now one request to make,... deny me not. Afford me the melancholy pleasure of seeing her body before internment.

To weep is not always to suffer.

Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life; Dear as these eyes, that weep in fondness o’er thee.

The day goes by like a shadow o’er the heart, With sorrow where all was delight; The time has come when the darkies have to part: Then my old Kentucky home, good night!

It is an old belief That on some solemn shore Beyond the sphere of grief Dear friends shall meet once more.

Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day! With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow:

Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.

I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain't I a woman?

His love was like the liberal air,— Embracing all, to cheer and bless; And every grief that mortals share Found pity in his tenderness.