Oscar Wilde Quotes

Holly died without a friend to hold her hand. Artemis felt her go, another gift of the magic. He kept on counting, brushing away the tears on his cheeks.

But there is a discomfort that surrounds grief. It makes even the most well-intentioned people unsure of what to say. And so many of the freshly bereaved end up feeling even more alone.

When friends and lovers die and your world gets quieter; that's when the silence comes closer; that's when next isn't the least bit theoretical or abstract.

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!

Grief is the price we pay for love.

Separation penetrates the disappearing person like a pigment and steeps him in gentle radiance.

To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.

One of the wonderful things about this glorious holiday trip I'm on is that I'm in public with people. It hasn't been inclined... I don't know - something to do with the death of my wife. It's inclined to make me isolated.

Widow. The word consumes itself.

Grief can't be shared. Everyone carries it alone. His own burden in his own way.

To lose your last remaining parent is the toughest thing. It is a very lonely thing.

When the people you love are gone, you're alone.

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.

The nature of most Covid-19 deaths, in hospital or a care home away from family and friends, has made it worse for the people they leave behind. In the absence of the traditional rites and rituals of funeral and mourning - the opportunity to just share a hug - the process of bereavement has been made even harder to bear.

grief is a house that disappears each time someone knocks at the door or rings the bell a house that blows into the air at the slightest gust that buries itself deep in the ground while everyone is sleeping

Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more - Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.

Survivors do not mourn together. They each mourn alone, even when in the same place. Grief is the most solitary of all feelings. Grief isolates, and every ritual, every gesture, every embrace, is a hopeless effort to break through that isolation. None of it works. The forms crumble and dissolve. To face death is to stand alone.

Each night I lie down in a graveyard of memories. Moonlight spins a shroud about me.

In losing a friend, she is reminded of all she has lost and all she stands to lose again. There is nothing to be done to make it any easier. We all grieve alone.

Outcasts always mourn.

For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart: He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak.

The perpetual mourner -- the grief that can never be healed -- is innocently enough felt to be wearisome by the rest of the world. And my sense of desolation increases. Each day seems a new beginning -- a new acquaintance with grief.

I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.

The wounds that never heal can only be mourned alone.

We are deeply sorry for the loss of anything - from your luggage to, of course, a loved pet.