Best 451 quotes in «mourning quotes» category

Why not the Victorians and their sentimental grief-wreaths woven from a loved one's hair?

Why? Why was it that in cases of real love the one who is left does not more often follow the beloved by suicide? Only because the living must bury the dead? Because of the measured rites that must be fulfilled after a death? Because it is as though the one who is left steps for a time upon a stage and each second swells to an unlimited amount of time and he id watched by many eyes? Because there is a function he must carry out? Or perhaps, when there is love, the widowed must stay for the resurrection of the beloved - so that the one who has gone is not really dead, but grows and is created for a second time in the soul of the living? Why?

Wie ich heimschritt bemerkte ich mit einemmal vor mir meinen eigenen Schatten so wie ich den Schatten des anderen Krieges hinter dem jetzigen sah. Er ist durch all diese Zeit nicht mehr von mir gewichen dieser Schatten er überhing jeden meiner Gedanken bei Tag und bei Nacht vielleicht liegt sein dunkler Umriß auch auf manchen Blättern dieses Buches. Aber jeder Schatten ist im letzten doch auch Kind des Lichts und nur wer Helles und Dunkles Krieg und Frieden Aufstieg und Niedergang erfahren nur der hat wahrhaft gelebt.

William sees it all happen again. The pain is not in the event. The subjection to it and his powerless state each time is where his anguish lies. He is unable to influence the situation, despite his desire. He sees the nest outside his house. He sees the baby bird that fell. The mother bird cries frantically for her lost chick. William knows as he approaches the chick that if he touches it his scent will linger, and the mother will reject it. Circling around the fallen creature William hopes it will flee from him, back toward the tree from which it had fallen. His presence only intensifies the creature’s fear. It speeds to his left, heading for the street. Again William tries to flank the bird, but it is too frightened to return to the nest. The chick’s mother wails vainly. William walks into the street trying to herd the bird to safety. The stop light a block away has just turned green. The driver accelerates. William moves from the car’s path and it runs over the bird. The momentum from its wake lifts the bird to the underside of the car, breaking its neck, but not killing it. William watches the bird roll helplessly. It is silent for a second, before it begins to whimper. Its contorted head dangles limply from its body. The noise is tragic. The bird’s mother hears the chick’s pain, but nothing can be done. She laments. A second speeder crushes the chick, leaving only a wet feathered spot in the street. As the cars continue to pass, only one bird is heard. A mother’s grief falls deafly on an unconcerned world.

Would that I knew what others ignore, Such as has not been repeated, To say it and have my heart answer me, To inform it of my distress. Shift to it the load on my back, The matters that afflict me. Relate to it of what I suffer And sigh “Ah" with relief! of meditate on what has happened, The events that occur throughout the land: Changes take place, it is not like last year, One year is more irksome than the other. The land breaks up, is destroyed. Becomes [a wasteland]. Order is cast out, Chaos is in the council hail ; The ways of the gods are violated, Their provisions neglected. The land is in turmoil. There is mourning everywhere; Towns, districts are grieving, All alike are burdened by wrongs. One turns one’s back on dignity. The lords of silence are disturbed; As dawn comes every day. The face recoils from events. I cry out about it, My limbs are weighed down, I grieve in my heart. It is hard to keep silent about it, Another heart would bend; But a heart strong in distress: It is a comrade to its lord. Had I a heart skilled in hardship, I would take my rest upon it. Weigh it down with words of grief. Lay on it my malady! He said to his heart: Come, my heart, I speak to you. Answer me my sayings! Unravel for me what goes on in the land, Why those who shone are overthrown. I meditate on what has happened: While trouble entered in today, And turmoil will not cease tomorrow, Everyone is mute about it. The whole land is in great distress, Nobody is free from erime; Hearts are greedy. He who gave orders takes orders, And the hearts of both submit. One wakes to it every day. And the hearts do not reject it. Yesterday's condition is like today’s None is wise enough to know it, None angry enough to cry out, One wakes to suffer each day. My malady is long and heavy. The sufferer lacks strength to save himself From that which overwhelms him. It is pain to be silent to what one hears, It is futile to answer the ignorant. To reject a speech makes enmity; The heart does not accept the truth, One cannot bear a statement of fact, A man loves only his own words. Everyone builds on crookedness, Right-speaking is abandoned. I spoke to you, my heart, answer you me, A heart addressed must not be silent, Lo, servant and master fare alike, There is much that weighs upon you!

Wracking sobs rip from the innermost chamber of my heart, and I give into them, allowing them to fully take over. Pain lances me on all sides, and I bury my head in my knees, giving in to the heartache.

You breathe upon us now through solid assertions of yourself: teaspoons, goblets, seas of carpet, a forest of old plants to be watered an old man in an adjoining room to be touched and fed. And all this universe dares us to lay a finger anywhere, save exactly as you would wish it done.

You never hear widows voice the sentiment, but I could stave off companionship indefinitely. Sex, not so much.

You know, I still can't get my head around what happened to Ana. She was there last week. She lent me a pen in English class. How can someone go from lending a pen to being dead?

You looked inhuman when you were dying, Doc, your eyes glistened like dimming stars, you were wasting away and life was leaving you piecemeal, your soul no longer fit your body, you hated it and I hated it and I couldn't recognize you and I couldn't see you and I was frightened and I never knew what to do, I looked for the man I love in you and I searched for who I used to be around you and I couldn't find either.

You cannot stop the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can stop them nesting in your hair.

You had to feel the swell change. You had to go with the change.

You have no choice about how you feel about this. Your only choice is whether to feel it now or later." Although her comment helped a little at first, during the next twenty-five years I would keep discovering that how much I was able to feel, or not, and when, was not a matter of choice.

Your dying was a difficult enterprise. First, petty things took up your energies, The small but clustering duties of the sick, Irritant as the cough’s dry rhetoric. Those hours of waiting for pills, shot, X-ray Or test (while you read novels two a day) Already with a kind of clumsy stealth Distanced you from the habits of your health.

You want to move on, but to do that you have to let her go, and you don't want to let her go, so you don't move on.

And in the afternoon they entered a land - but such a land! A land hung in mourning, darkened by gigantic cypresses, submerged; a land of reptiles, silence, shadow, decay.

After playing Chopin, I feel as if I had been weeping over sins that I had never committed and mourning over tragedies that were not my own.

Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death.

Every time someone in your life dies, you realize you're not invincible and you have to wonder if we're celebrating life or if we're mourning a death.

Home, as far as I'm concerned, is the place you have to leave. And then, if you're like me, spend the rest of your life mourning.

In the custom of mourning, the fabric of the night had been ripped, revealing a star at each tiny tear.

Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!

If a man will observe as he walks the streets, I believe he will find the merriest countenances in mourning coaches.

If mourning is denied outlet, the result will be suffering.

I get inhabited by a character and then you mourn it. There's a period of mourning for me, definitely.

In the voice of mirth there may be excitement, but in the tones of mourning there is consolation.

I suppose while we are mourning the loss of our friend, others are rejoicing to meet him behind the veil; and while he has left us, others are coming into the world at the same time, and probably in this our territory. There is a continuous change, an ingress of beings into the world and an egress out of it.

I support many organizations that I feel are doing the right thing, like Alonzo Mourning's foundation, Alicia Keys' foundation, the Make-a-Wish Foundation, and other well-established foundations. I kick out a lot of time and money wherever I can.

In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all, and it comes with bitter agony. Perfect relief is not possible, except with the passing of time.

I still read a lot about teenage angst! Of course, any kind of mourning CAN become pathological and then it 'has to stop', but to move through life untouched by the loss of hopes, beliefs and aspirations once cherished is also questionable.

I wake up in that state of grief when you can tell you've been mourning even in your sleep.

I will die like a true-blue rebel. Don't waste any time in mourning - organize.

I was deeply influenced by the sartorial practices of both preachers and jazz musicians and actually Masha in Act One of Anton Chekhov, my favorite writer's master piece,Three Sisters,when she arrives reflecting on whether they're ever going to get to Moscow, memories of the death of their father, and she's in black, and she says I'm in mourning for the world, saying in part that I have a sad soul and a cheerful disposition.

John [Lennon] as a singer - the way he sings on "Twist and Shout" and the way he sings on "Strawberry Fields Forever" - is a very odd voice, in the sense that it seems to be celebrating but almost mourning at the same time. There's a quality of mourning to his voice, which is very enigmatic.

Mourning after an absent God is an evidence of a love as strong, as rejoicing in a present one.

Mourning is one of the most profound human experiences that it is possible to have.

Mourning Ruby is not a flat landscape: it is more like a box with pictures painted on every face. And each face is also a door which opens, I hope, to take the reader deep into the book.

Miles was still mourning the loss of his Romantic Plan. 'There was going to be champagne, and oysters, and you' - he held out both hands as though shifting a piece of furniture - 'were going to be sitting there, and I was going to get down on one knee, and...and...

Mourning has a pace and rhythm of its own. It cannot be rushed.

Mourning is not forgetting... It is an undoing. Every minute tie has to be untied and something permanent and valuable recovered and assimilated from the dust.

One friend dies and we remain indifferent; another dies, perhaps less intimate, and we see ourselves as dead, and weep, mourn, tear our hair or find ourselves caught up in the madness of the wake, competing with others as to who was closest, now suffers most.

None mourn more ostentatiously over the death of Germanicus than those who most rejoice at it [a death].

Naming suffering, exalting it, dissecting it into its smallest components – that is doubtless a way to curb mourning.

Now let the weeping cease; Let no one mourn again. These things are in the hands of God.

Red was the blood of the siblings massacred in the North, black was for mourning them, green was for the prosperity Biafra would have, and, finally, the half of a yellow sun stood for the glorious future.

People go around mourning the death of God; it's the death of sssin that bothers me. Without ssin, people aren't people any more, they're just ssoul-less sheep.

People will suffer and so will nature, but life is likely to go on with a great deal of loss and mourning. Human adaptability and resilience will still be alive, and so will that great need and resource of ours called love.

People are put down in television now, not because they're not qualitative, not because they're not talented - but because there's no room for them, and worse than that, there's nowhere they can find exposure. Their own good talent may die of mourning, just for want of having somebody read what they've written. I don't presume to say how we can best provide platforms for new writers to get read. I don't know. But therein lies the major problem.

Sorrow makes us all children again.

Rosalia is dressed in raven clothes forty years too old for her, so that she seems to be in mourning for her life.