Shall we mourn here deedless forever a shadow-folk mist-haunting dropping vain tears in the thankless sea
A thousand for his love expired each day, And those who saw his face, in blank dismay Would rave and grieve and mourn their lives away- To die for love of that bewitching sight Was worth a hundred lives without his light. None could survive his absence patiently, None could endure this king's proximity- How strange it was that man could neither brook The presence nor the absence of his look!
Life only has the value a person gives it. If I killed you here and now, yours would be worthless and no one would mourn you. Is that really what you want? (Sin) I don’t own my life. It means nothing to me. (Kish) Then it means nothing to anyone. But if you had your life again, would it still be worthless? (Sin)
Perhaps the most dehumanizing thing in Gaza is people there don't have the time to properly mourn the dead before strikes kill even more
Mourn the dead, fight like hell for the living
To mourn was distressing, but to endeavor to mourn and fail was worse than distress.
When a man mourns for someone who has played him false, it is not for love of her, but for his own humiliation at not having deserved her trust.
It's time to live with what we have and mourn what we lost.
He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.
When one by one our ties are torn, and friend from friend is snatched forlorn; when man is left alone to mourn, oh! then how sweet it is to die!
Some people, they can't just move on, you know, mourn and cry and be done with it. Or at least seem to be. But for me. . . I don't know. I didn't want to fix it, to forget. It wasn't something that was broken. It's just. . . something that happened. And like that hole, I'm just finding ways, every day, of working around it. Respecting and remembering and getting on at the same time.
We mourn the transitory things and fret under the yoke of the immutable ones.
Only have enough of little virtues and common fidelities, and you need not mourn because you are neither a hero nor a saint.
Outcasts always mourn.
Do not mourn the dead. They know what they are doing.
If you are called as a missionary—a “sent-out one”—then you are called to comfort those who mourn. You are called to love the broken until they understand God’s love—a love that never dies—through you.
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
And yet, I suppose you mourn the loss or the death of what you thought your life was, even if you find your life is better after. You mourn the future that you thought you'd planned.
The freedom-lovers of the world mourn the sad demise of Imam Khomeini.
The flower fades and dies; but he who wears the flower has not to mourn for it for ever.