I find beauty in melancholy.
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
There is something beautiful, touching and poetic when one person loves more than the other, and the other is indifferent.
Let the poets cry themselves to sleep, and all their tearful words will turn back into steam.
I would hardly change the sorrowful words of the poets for their glad ones. Tears dampen the strings of the lyre, but they grow the tensor for it, and ring even the clearer and more ravishingly.
They say my verse is sad: no wonder; Its narrow measure spans Tears of eternity, and sorrow, Not mine. but man's.
Unhappie Verse, the witnesse of my unhappie state, Make thy selfe fluttring wings of thy fast flying Thought
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow.
As long as there's been poetry, there have been lamentations.
Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
There is the melancholy of Europe. There is the romantic malaise. Feeling sad is almost a form of deepness.
loveliness is infernally sad.
My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose; and all my grief flows from the rift of unremembered skies and snows. I think that if I touched the earth, it would crumble; it is so sad and beautiful, so tremulously like a dream.
How beautiful is sorrow when it is dressed by virgin innocence! it makes felicity in others seem deformed.
Beauty and sadness always go together.
At that moment, beauty itself struck me as a kind of painful melancholy.
Every sorrow suggests a thousand songs and every song recalls a thousand sorrows and so they are infinite in number and all the same.
