Chloe Kohanski Quotes

There are few sensations more painful, than, in the midst of deep grief, to know that the season which we have always associated with mirth and rejoicing is at hand.

Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?

My heart is tuned to sorrow, and the strings Vibrate most readily to minor chords, Searching and sad; my mind is stuffed with words Which voice the passion and the ache of things: Illusions beating with their baffled wings Against the walls of circumstance.

Sorrow is never more sorrowful than when it jests at its own misery.

Fro and to in my dreams to you To the haunting tune of the harp For the price I paid when you died that day I paid that day with my heart Fro and to in my dreams to you With the breaking of my heart Ne'er more again will I sing this song Ne'er more will I hear the harp.

I guess that's why they call it the blues, time on my hands could be time spent with you.

Christmas is such a feel-good time of year, and despite what's going on, it's about love and it's about celebration and just the holidays in general. It's like, why can't we carry that through the rest of the year? Why does it have to be just now? Let's make the entire year a season of love.

How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.

I love all the '90s kind of grunge, and I love classic rock: That's where the spectrum lies.

When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smooths her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.

It's the only condition I know. Bitter Love, Loneliness, contempt for corruption, blind hope. It's where I live. A permanent state of bereavement. This is nothing new.

Blues are the songs of despair.

Don't forget that in the midst of all your pain and heartache, you are surrounded by beauty, the wonder of creation, art, your music and culture, the sounds of laughter and love, of whispered hopes and celebrations, of new life and transformation, of reconciliation and forgiveness.

Sorrow, on wing through the world for ever, Here and there for awhile would borrow Rest, if rest might haply deliver Sorrow.

The weeping of the guitar begins. The goblets of dawn are smashed. The weeping of the guitar begins. Useless to silence it. Impossible to silence it. It weeps monotonously as water weeps as the wind weeps over snowfields. Impossible to silence it. It weeps for distant things. Hot southern sands yearning for white camellias. Weeps arrow without target evening without morning and the first dead bird on the branch. Oh, guitar! Heart mortally wounded by five swords.

Beauty and sadness always go together.

Happiness is a sad song.

And sometimes when the night is slow The wretched and the meek We gather up our hearts and go A Thousand Kisses Deep.