Compassion is a mixed passion, composed of love and sorrow.
Once, when I was young and true. Someone left me sad - Broke my brittle heart in two; And that is very bad. Love is for unlucky folk, Love is but a curse. Once there was a heart I broke; And that, I think, is worse.
And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.
Oh, why should vows so fondly made, Be broken ere the morrow, To one who loves as never maid Loved in this world of sorrow?
Thus with my lips have I denounced you, while my heart, bleeding within me, called you tender names.
My love is like some raven at my window with a broken wing.
I guess that's why they call it the blues, time on my hands could be time spent with you.
To Sorrow I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly: She is so constant to me, and so kind.
We used to say "Ah Hell, we're young" But now we see that life is sad And so is love.
Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.
Please is frail like a dewdrop, while it laughs it dies. But sorrow is strong and abiding. Let sorrowful love wake in your eyes.
I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .
Sharp knives seemed to cut her delicate feet, yet she hardly felt them, so deep was the pain in her heart. She could not forget that this was the last night she would ever see the one for whom she had left her home and family, had given up her beautiful voice, and had day by day endured unending torment, of which he knew nothing at all. An eternal night awaited her.
Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure; Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure; Pity then will cut away Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.
Some stories don't have happy endings. Even love stories. Maybe especially love stories.
I still love you. And sometimes, my friend, the love that I have, and can't give to you, crushes the breath from my chest. Sometimes, even now, my heart is drowning in a sorrow that has no stars without you, and no laughter, and no sleep.
Love laid his sleepless head On a thorny rose bed: And his eyes with tears were red, And pale his lips as the dead.
Forgetfulness of grief I yet may gain;In some wise may come ending to my pain;It may be yet the Gods will have me glad!Yet, Love, I would that thee and pain I had!
Hell's afloat in lover's tears.
Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.
