All things grow with time — except grief.
But there are other things than dissipation that thicken the features. Tears, for example.
Grief at the absence of a loved one is happiness compared to life with a person one hates.
Grief can't be shared. Everyone carries it alone. His own burden in his own way.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child, lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words.
Grief is light that is capable of counsel.
Grief is only the memory of widowed affections.
Grief is the agony of an instant. The indulgence of grief the blunder of a life.
Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys.
Grief, and an estate, is joy understood,
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.
In all the silent manliness of grief.
In deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality.
In private grief with careless scorn. In public seem to triumph and not to mourn.
In struggling against anguish one never produces serenity; the struggle against anguish only produces new forms of anguish.
No matter how deep and dark your pit, how dank your shroud, their heads are heroically unbloody and unbowed.
No one can keep his grieves in their prime; they use themselves up.
No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.
Nothing becomes so offensive so quickly as grief. When fresh it finds someone to console it, but when it becomes chronic, it is ridiculed, and rightly.
One often calms one's grief by recounting it.