There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
Sorrows are like thunderclouds, in the distance they look black, over our heads scarcely gray.
Sorrow is better than laughter; for, by the sadness of the countenance, the heart is made better.
If you suppress grief too much, it can well redouble.
Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief?
When sparrows build and the leaves break forth My old sorrow wakes and cries.
I walked a mile with Pleasure; She chattered all the way. But left me none the wiser For all she had to say. I walked a mile with Sorrow And ne'er a word said she; But oh, the things I learned from her When Sorrow walked with me!
There is no wisdom in useless and hopeless sorrow.
Sorrow is so easy to express and yet so hard to tell.
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.
Sorrow is better than fear. Fear is a journey, a terrible journey. But, sorrow is at least an arriving.
There is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and have recovered hope.
It is those who make the least display of their sorrow who mourn the deepest.
He who is overly attached to his family members experiences fear and sorrow, for the root of all grief is attachment. Thus one should discard attachment to be happy.
People who drink to drown their sorrow should be told that sorrow knows how to swim.
Alas! sorrow from happiness is oft evolved.
Everyone is overridden by thoughts; that's why they have so much heartache and sorrow.
This sorrow weighs upon the melancholy souls of those who lived without infamy or praise.
I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.
Sorrow is the mere rust of the soul. Activity will cleanse and brighten it.
Sorrow was like the wind. It came in gusts.
My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.
Sorrow looks back, Worry looks around, Faith looks up
Rash combat oft immortalizes man; if he should fall, he is renowned in song; but after-ages reckon not the ceaseless tears which the forsaken woman sheds. Poets tell us not of the many nights consumed in weeping, or of the dreary days wherein her anguished soul vainly yearns to call her loved one back.
Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.
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