Mourn Quotes (displaying: 1 - 30 of 265 quotes )
Here again, the difference between the effective and the virtual, between mourning and its possibility, seems fragile and porous. The anguished apprehension of mourning (without which the act of friendship would not spring forth in its very energy) insinuates itself a priori and anticipates itself; it haunts and plunges the friend, before mourning, into mourning. This apprehension weeps before the lamentation, it weeps death before death, and this is the very respiration of friendship, the extreme of its possibility. Hence surviving is at once the essence, the origin and the possibility, the condition of possibility of friendship; it is the grieved act of loving. This time of surviving thus gives the time of friendship.
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even, Doth half that glory to the sober west, As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O! let it then as well beseem thy heart. To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack
There's nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don't live up until their death. Dumb fuckers. Their minds are full of shit. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die.
A Kite is a VictimA kite is a victim you are sure of.You love it because it pullsgentle enough to call you master,strong enough to call you fool;because it liveslike a desperate trained falconin the high sweet air,and you can always haul it downto tame it in your drawer.A kite is a fish you have already caughtin a pool where no fish come,so you play him carefully and long,and hope he won't give up,or the wind die down.A kite is the last poem you've writtenso you give it to the wind,but you don't let it gountil someone finds yousomething else to do.A kite is a contract of glorythat must be made with the sun,so you make friends with the fieldthe river and the wind,then you pray the whole cold night before,under the travelling cordless moon,to make you worthy and lyric and pure.GiftYou tell me that silenceis nearer to peace than poemsbut if for my giftI brought you silence(for I know silence)you would sayThis is not silencethis is another poemand you would hand it back to meThere are some menThere are some menwho should have mountainsto bear their names through timeGrave markers are not high enoughor greenand sons go far away to lose the fisttheir fathe?s hand will always seemI had a friend he lived and diedin mighty silence and with dignityleft no book son or lover to mourn.Nor is this a mourning songbut only a naming of this mountainon which I walkfragrant, dark and softly whiteunder the pale of mistI name this mountain after him.-Believe nothing of meExcept that I felt your beautymore closely than my own.I did not see any cities burn,I heard no promises of endless night,I felt your beautymore closely than my own.Promise me that I will return.--When you call me closeto tell meyour body is not beautifulI want to summonthe eyes and hidden mouthsof stone and light and waterto testify against you.-SongI almost went to bedwithout rememberingthe four white violetsI put in the button-holeof your green sweaterand how i kissed you thenand you kissed meshy as though I'dnever been your lover -Reach into the vineyard of arteries for my heart.Eat the fruit of ignorance and share with me the mist andfragrance of dying.-
Doctor MacKenzie says "Sometimes I think the Victorians had the right idea. When you lost a family member back then you were suppose to be in full mourning, dress in nothing but black, for a whole year. Then you went into something they called 'half mourning' for another full year, adn during those two years, you were pretty much expected to have emotional breakdowns, you could do it whenever you felt you needed to, and everybody would support you. Now?, A month after a tragedy, maybe two, and you're expected to be all better-or down pills so you can pretend you are.
THE ROSE OF THE WORLD WHO dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna’s children died. We and the labouring world are passing by: Amid men’s souls, that waver and give place Like the pale waters in their wintry race, Under the passing stars, foam of the sky, Lives on this lonely face. Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode: Before you were, or any hearts to beat, Weary and kind one lingered by His seat; He made the world to be a grassy road Before her wandering feet.
At the round earth's imagined corners blow. Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise. From death, you numberless infinities. Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go ; All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom war, dea[r]th, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you, whose eyes. Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space ; For, if above all these my sins abound,'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace, When we are there. Here on this lowly ground, Teach me how to repent, for that's as good. As if Thou hadst seal'd my pardon with Thy blood.
It was then between one o'clock in the morning and half-past that hour; the sky soon cleared a bit before me, and the lunar crescent peeped out from behind the clouds - that sad crescent of the last quarter of the moon. The crescent of the new moon, that which rises at four or five o'clock in the evening, is clear, bright and silvery; but that which rises after midnight is red, sinister and disquieting; it is the true crescent of the witches' Sabbath: all night-walkers must have remarked the contrast. The first, even when it is as narrow as a silver thread, projects a cheery ray, which rejoices the heart, and casts on the ground sharply defined shadows; while the latter reflects only a mournful glow, so wan that the shadows are bleared and indistinct. ("Who Knows?")