Grief-stricken Quotes

The light has gone out of my life.

Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter and black, halfway down, in the darkness, in the shaft which ran from the sunlight to the depths, perhaps a tear formed; a tear fell; the waves swayed this way and that, received it, and were at rest. Never did anybody look so sad.

Real sorrow is incompatible with hope. No matter how great that sorrow may be, hope raises it one hundred cubits higher.

Oh! grief is fantastic; it weaves a web on which to trace the history of its woe from every form and change around; it incorporates itself with all living nature; it finds sustenance in every object; as light, it fills all things, and, like light, it gives its own colors to all.

Two turtle doves will show thee Where my cold ashes lie And sadly murmuring tell thee How in tears I did die

Symmetry is tedious, and tedium is the very basis of mourning. Despair yawns.

Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.

Desiring always to be in mourning, he clothed himself with night.

I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow.

So loud was the wailing of the women and children that there was not one man among us whose heart did not bleed at the sound.

She was a ghost in a strange house that overnight had become immense and solitary and through which she wandered without purpose, asking herself in anguish which one of them was deader: the man who had died or the woman he had left behind.

Yes, I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness, sad as an eagle without wings, sad as a violin with only one string and that one broken, sad as a woman who is growing old. Sad, sad, sad.

The king died and then the queen died is a story. The king died, and then queen died of grief is a plot.

So my reaction to hearing this corny-ass, horrible song ["With Arms Wide Open" by Creed] is violent, uncontrollable, sustained weeping.

Sorrow is never more sorrowful than when it jests at its own misery.

He wanted to tell her that everything he had done he had done because he was broken, because watching her die had destroyed him, but there was no way to say it that didn’t sound like he was trying to pin the blame outside himself

Now something so sad has hold of us that the breath leaves and we can't even cry.

These are the folk who may pass into the kingdom of heaven: the grief-stricken, lovers, scholars of a certain obsessive disposition. Brute beasts. Women who have become as men and men who have become as women. Writers of books with long titles. Only those knights who have failed to touch the Grail. Industrious women. You, and I, and a boy named Oleg, and a girl with blue hair.

Ring out your bells! Let mourning show be spread! For Love is dead.

The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it shews in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven: and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.

O wretched state! o bosom black as death!

We see his smile of love even when others see nothing but the black hand of death smiting our best beloved.

A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.