Tears shed for another person are not a sign of weakness. They are a sign of a pure heart.

If there were a sympathy in choice,War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it,Making it momentary as a sound,Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,Brief as the lightning in the collied nightThat, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!'The jaws of darkness do devour it up;So quick bright things come to confusion.

As he watches the sun rise, what grieves him is that he failed her. He thinks of the terror she felt. They tell him it was quick, as if that will somehow confine the horror.

A funeral is no place for secrets.

In this sad world of ours sorrow comes to all and it often comes with bitter agony. Perfect relief is not possible except with time. You cannot now believe that you will ever feel better. But this is not true. You are sure to be happy again. Knowing this, truly believing it will make you less miserable now. I have had enough experience to make this statement.

The great love is gone. There are still little loves - friend to friend, brother to sister, student to teacher. Will you deny yourself comfort at the hearthfire of a cottage because you may no longer sit by the fireplace of a palace? Will you deny yourself to those who reach out to you in hopes of warming themselves at your hearthfire?

My sister will die over and over again for the rest of my life. Grief is forever. It doesn't go away; it becomes a part of you, step for step, breath for breath. I will never stop grieving Bailey because I will never stop loving her. That's just how it is. Grief and love are conjoined, you don't get one without the other. All I can do is love her, and love the world, emulate her by living with daring and spirit and joy.

Formerly, people used to grieve over the departed, but in our days they grieve over the survivors.

Like a child in its cradle I would that very gentle arms Might rock my grieving spirit And be as it were a kindly shelter For my heart-a traveler lost On a remote deserted road.

My kinsmen may still be grieving, While others have started singing. I am dead and gone-what more is there to say? My body is buried in the mountains.

My eyes have only one job: to cry.

What piercing cold I feel! My dead wife's comb, in our bedroom, under my heel... .

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

You grieve for those beyond grief and you speak words of insight; but learned men do not grieve for the dead or the living.

They say a man is like a funeral ram which must take whatever beating comes to it without opening its mouth; only the silent tremor of pain down its body tells of its suffering.