I found that the only way I could control this sorrow was not to think of [it] at all, which was almost as painful as the loss itself.

She had never looked as well. She had entered her room as just an impossibly lovely girl. The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, an ocean sadder. This one understood the nature of pain, and beneath the glory of her features, there was character, and a sure knowledge of suffering.

I kiss your tear-stained cheeks, tasting the saltiness of a hidden sea of sorrow.

On the seventh day of the Seventh-month, in the Palace of Long Life,We told each other secretly in the quiet midnight worldThat we wished to fly in heaven, two birds with the wings of one,And to grow together on the earth, two branches of one tree.'Earth endures, heaven endures; some time both shall end,While this unending sorrow goes on and on for ever.

Edgar Allan Poe’s writings showed me perfectly that there can be such fragile beauty and purity located in darkness and sorrow.

The soul knows its sorrow.

Even when a river of tears courses through this body, the flame of love cannot be quenched.

The sadness sorrow is to desire death while you have life.

I should feel energized and powerful, invulnerable and potent, but all I feel is lost.

I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, hoever, turns out to be not a state but a process.