A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
And almost everyone when age, disease, or sorrows strike him, inclines to think there is a God, or something very like him.
Bear and endure: This sorrow will one day prove to be for your good.
But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Cares are often more difficult to throw off than sorrows; the latter die with time, the former grow.
Every life has a measure of sorrow, and sometimes this is what awakens us.
Excessive sorrow laughs. Excessive joy weeps.
It is foolish to tear one's hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less with baldness.
Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, great as each may be, their highest comfort given to the sorrowful is a cordial introduction into another's woe. Sorrow's the great community in which all men born of woman are members at one time or another.
Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth.
Melancholy and sadness are the start of doubt… doubt is the beginning of despair; despair is the cruel beginning of the differing degrees of wickedness.
Only one-fourth of the sorrow in each man's life is caused by outside uncontrollable elements, the rest is self-imposed by failing to analyze and act with calmness.
Pain and fear and hunger are effects of causes which can be foreseen and known: but sorrow is a debt which someone else makes for us.
Sadness does not inhere in things; it does not reach us from the world and through mere contemplation of the world. It is a product of our own thought. We create it out of whole cloth.
Since my earliest childhood a barb of sorrow has lodged in my heart. As long as it stays I am ironic — if it is pulled out I shall die.
Some say that happiness is not good for mortals, and they ought to be answered that sorrow is not fit for immortals and is utterly useless to any one; a blight never does good to a tree, and if a blight kill not a tree but it still bear fruit, let none say that the fruit was in consequence of the blight.
Sorrow has produced more melody than mirth.
Sorrow has the fortunate peculiarity that it preys upon itself. It dies of starvation. Since it is essentially an interruption of habits, it can be replaced by new habits. Constituting, as it does, a void, it is soon filled up by a real ''horror vacuum.''
Sorrow is a kind of rust of the soul, which every new idea contributes in its passage to scour away. It is the putrefaction of stagnant life, and is remedied by exercise and motion.
Sorrow is better than laughter, for by the sadness of the face the heart is made better.