What we have we prize not to the worth whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, why, then we rack the value, then we find the virtue that possession would not show us whiles it was ours.
What I should say, my tears gainsay: for every word I speak ye see I drink the water of mine eyes.
Toil is man’s allotment; toil of brain, or toil of hands, or a grief that’s more than either, the grief and sin of idleness.
To weep is to make less the depth of grief.
To me and to the state of my great grief let kings assemble, for my grief’s so great that no supporter but the huge firm earth can hold it up. Here I and sorrows sit. Here is my throne; bid kings come bow to it.
Those happy smilets, that played on her ripe lip, seemed not to know what guests were in her eyes; which parted thence, as pearls from diamonds dropped.
This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
The Sweets of Pillage, can be known To no one but the Thief – Compassion for Integrity Is his divinest Grief –
The sorry truth is you can walk your feet to blisters, walk till kingdom-come, and you never will outpace your grief.
The perpetual mourner – the grief that can never be healed – is innocently enough felt to be wearisome by the rest of the world. And my sense of desolation increases. Each day seems a new beginning — a new acquaintance with grief.
Tears are the silent language of grief.[Les larmes sont le langage muet de la douleur.]
