Quotes
Quotes about Sorrow
It is foolish to tear one's hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less with baldness.
A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance: but by sorrow of the heart the spirit is broken.
Sorrow is the great idealizer.
Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-- Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, It is there, it is there, my child!
Only you and I can help the sun rise each coming morning. If we don't, it may drench itself out in sorrow.
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them-that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.
Guilt is the source of sorrows, the avenging fiend that follows us behind with whips and stings.
In vain I trusted that the flowing bowl Would banish sorrow, and enlarge the soul. To the late revel, and protracted feast, Wild dreams succeeded, and disorder'd rest.
Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty, which became A funeral dower of present woes and past, On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, And annals graved in characters of flame. [It., Italia, Italia, O tu cui feo la sorte, Dono infelice di bellezza, ond' hai Funesta dote d'infiniti guai Che in fronte scritti per gran doglia porte.]
My plenteous joys, Wanton in fullness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.
Find expression for a sorrow, and it will become dear to you. Find expression for a joy, and you will intensify its ecstasy.
I have been in Sorrow's kitchen and licked out all the pots. Then I have stood on the peaky mountain wrapped in rainbows, with a harp and sword in my hands.
For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.
Labour itself is but a sorrowful song, The protest of the weak against the strong.
Laugh, and be fat, sir, your penance is known. They that love mirth, let them heartily drink, 'Tis the only receipt to make sorrow sink.
Some book there is that she desires to see. Which is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy. But thou art deeper read and better skilled: Come and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens Reveal the damned contriver of this deed.
Yet ah! why should they know their fate?Since sorrow never comes too late,And happiness too swiftly flies.Thought would destroy their paradise.No more; where ignorance is bliss,'Tis folly to be wise. - Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College.
I hold it true,what'er befall;I feel it, when I sorrow most;'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all. - In Memoriam.
Love and relationships are truly one of the most paradoxical aspects of being human. For it is in love that we find the greatest of strengths and the deepest of sorrows. Love can seem to be so fleeting and unachievable yet it remains well within our reach if we only learn how to embrace it's power. To experience true love, we must be willing to open ourselves up and sacrifice part of our heart and part of our soul. We must be willing to give of ourselves freely, and we must be willing to suffer. It is only when we expose our inner selves to the white hot flame of rejection, that love can burn so brightly as to join to souls, melding the two into one, creating a bond that joins forever. It is from this bond that we draw strength eternal and power ever lasting. It is in this thing that we call love that we find the means to achieve greatness, both in ourselves and in our lives.
I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.
Ye children of man! whose life is a span Protracted with sorrow from day to day, Naked and featherless, feeble and querulous, Sickly, calamitous creatures of clay.
"Is there no hope?" the sick man said, The silent doctor shook his head, And took his leave with signs of sorrow, Despairing of his fee to-morrow.
(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor? (Doctor:) Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies That keep her from her rest. (Macbeth:) Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory of a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuffed bosom of the perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? (Doctor:) Therein the patient Must minister to himself. (Macbeth:) Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it!
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud And chase the native beauty from his cheek, And he will look as hollow as a ghost, As dim and meagre as an ague's fit, And so he'll die; and rising so again, When I shall meet him in the court of heaven I shall not know him.
