Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Mourner. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Mourner Quotes And Sayings by 93 Authors including Ransom Riggs,Terry Pratchett,Louise Suzanne Boyd,Christian Mcewen,Henry Wadsworth Longfellow for you to enjoy and share.
I spent the months following my grandfather's death cycling through a purgatory of beige waiting rooms and anonymous offices ( ... ), the object of a thousand pitying glances and knitted brows.
Lessee ... he'd gone off after the funeral and gotten drunk. No, not drunk, another word, ended with "er." Drunker. that was it.
The road of grief is often long and lonely and many stones need to be moved out of the way, but it is not without its lighter moments.
To mourn is to be extraordinarily vulnerable. It is to be at the mercy of inside feelings and outside events in a way most of us have not been since early childhood.
Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.
To mourn is to feel a flower's slow death, hill bear. To bed a man is to recall the flower's bright glory.
When you lose a loved one, you come to these crossroads. You can take the path that leads you down the aisle of sadness, or you can say, 'I'm never going to let this person's memory die. I'm going to make sure everything they worked for continues.'
What is the difference between grief and mourning? Mourning has company.
Memorial Service: Farewell party for someone who already left.
We cry in our own rooms, remembering a man who will never be here again.The house creaks. Maybe it feels the weight of our grief, maybe the floorboards are buckling because the burden is too heavy.
One is not allowed a grief for a life never lived. Yet one has buried the fruit of love, and a great deal of hope and many dreams.
Immoderate grief is selfish, harmful, brings no advantage to either the mourner or the mourned, and dishonors the dead.
Condole - to show that bereavement is a smaller evil than sympathy.
He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man
What manner of man would lose a loved one and still have the right mind-frame to perform his work?
Grief has a colour. It has other characteristics, I know now, collectively forming a personality of sorts. An antagonizing figure that arrives in your life and refuses to leave or sit anywhere but next to you or stop whispering the name of the departed in your ear.
French zombie chauffeur.
Grief that is dazed and speechless is out of fashion: the modern woman mourns her husband loudly and tells you the whole story of his death, which distresses her so much that she forgets not the slightest detail about it.
A funeral is not death, any more than baptism is birth or marriage union. All three are the clumsy devices, coming now too late, now too early, by which Society would register the quick motions of man.
CEMETERY, n. An isolated suburban spot where mourners match lies, poets write at a target and stone-cutters spell for a wager.
Grief is a species of idleness.
When other people are grieving, the newspaperman turns efficient.
You've mourned. Now it's time to live.
Victim-eyes of impersonal tragedy, to be impersonal no longer.
To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
A bearer of news of death appears to himself as very important. His feeling - even against all reason - makes him a messenger from the realm of the dead.
If one drops dead in the street, friends and loved ones are shocked, stricken, but a long lingering death loses all nobility and drama, while relatives and friends await the inevitable end in a succession of weary anti-climaxes.
Well blest is he who has a dear one dead; A friend he has whose face will never change- A dear communion that will not grow strange; The anchor of a love is death.
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat; The soldier's last tattoo; No more on Life's parade shall meet; The brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping-ground; Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards, with solemn round; The bivouac of the dead.
Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Who was it, I wonder, who decided that heartbroken relatives should host a party at the very moment all they wished for was to be left alone to grieve?
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
What's a mediator you ask? Oh, a person who acts as a liason between the living and the dead. Hey, wait a minute ... what're you doing with that strait jacket?-Suze Simon's imagination
An everlasting funeral marches round your heart.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words,
Remembers me of his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
Of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors and talk of wills; And yet not so - for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
One friend dies and we remain indifferent; another dies, perhaps less intimate, and we see ourselves as dead, and weep, mourn, tear our hair or find ourselves caught up in the madness of the wake, competing with others as to who was closest, now suffers most.
We always knew how to honor fallen soldiers. They were killed for our sake, they went out on our mission. But how are we to mourn a random man killed in a terrorist attack while sitting in a cafe? How do you mourn a housewife who got on a bus and never returned?
Carve not upon a stone when I am dead, The praises which remorseful mourners give; To women's graves - a tardy recompense, But speak them while I live.
When you attend a funeral, It is sad to think that sooner o' Later those you love will do the same for you. And you may have thought it tragic, Not to mention other adjec- Tives, to think of all the weeping they will do. (But don't you worry.
Grief best is pleased with grief's society ...
A woman who loses a husband is called a widow, a man who loses his wife is called a widower, and a child who loses his/her parents is called an orphan, but there is no word in the English language for a parent who loses a child (Jay Neugeboren).
You mean to tell me you're mourning the loss of someone who never existed?
Tears for the mourners who are left behind
Peace everlasting for the quiet dead.
The dead leave their shadows, an echo of the space within which once they lived. They haunt us, never fading or growing older as we do. The loss we grieve is not just their futures but our own.
Someone who is about to die does not mourn the dead.
None mourn more ostentatiously than those who most rejoice at it [a death].
What kind of man refers to himself as safely dead?
He had grieved for me, I'll give him that much. But then he is so good at grieving! He wears woe as others wear velvet; sorrow flatters him like the light of candles; tears become him like jewels.
A person who hasn't grieved a significant loss has unfinished business inside and can cause others great grief as a result.
Death is a mighty mediator. There all the flames of rage are extinguished, hatred is appeased, and angelic pity, like a weeping sister, bends with gentle and close embrace over the funeral urn.
A grave, on which to rest from singing?
A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear,
A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet or relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear.
To mourn, perhaps, is simply to prolong a posture of astonishment ...
Man, when he does not grieve, hardly exists.
Don't mourn me. Be joyful.
Mourning, the act of dealing with grief, required attention. Until now there had been every urgent reason to obliterate any attention that might otherwise have been paid, banish the thought, bring fresh adrenaline to bear on the crisis of the day.
Grief can be a slow ache that never seems to stop rising, yet as we grieve, those we love mysteriously become more and more a part of who we are.
I'm a goner, a kid who stays up half the night trying to figure out the horror of the world and trying to survive it.
Grief! thou art classed amongst the depressing passions. And true it is that thou humblest to the dust, but also thou exaltest to the clouds. Thou shakest us with ague, but also thou steadiest like frost. Thou sickenest the heart, but also thou healest its infirmities.
Mourning is one of the most profound human experiences that it is possible to have ... The deep capacity to weep for the loss of a loved one and to continue to treasure the memory of that loss is one of our noblest human traits.
Proper mourning leaves one nothing to do but mourn, and I've concluded this isn't a good thing. Grief crowds in closely enough without the rest of life being shoved aside to make way for it.
I realized that whilst crying over the loss, the living did not seem adequate because they were not my loved one. The room full of strangers hurt me profusely. Even as I saw thousands of young people; I felt incomplete and more saddened because the one I wanted to see was buried.
Don't grieve. Don't grieve. I shall be there/Look for my footprint on the air.
Everyone, deep down within, carries a small cemetery of those he has loved.
Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering.
But to mourn, that's different. To mourn is to be eaten alive with homesickness for the person.
I have lived through an eventful year, yet understand no more of it than a babe in arms. Of all the people of this town I am the one least fitted to write a memorial. Better the blacksmith with his cries of rage and woe.
Summer Islanders. That's how they mourn. They answer death with life.
One forgets the dead quite quickly; one doesn't wonder about the dead-what is he doing now, who is he with?
Grief is at once a public and a private experience. One's inner, inexpressible disruption cannot be fully realized in one's public persona.
Death's the discarder.
Grief is devastating, all-consuming. But grief merely visits friends, even the closest. It stays much longer, probably forever, with the family, but that was probably how it should be.
Poet: gardener of epitaphs.
I weep fer the livin. I weep fer the dead. I weep fer the yet to be born.
Mourning was really for the living.
The word survivor suggests someone who has emerged alive from a plane crash or a natural disaster. But the word can also refer to the loved ones of murder victims, and this was the sense in which it was used at a four-day conference in early June at Boston College.
How futile are words in the ears of those who mourn.
Mourn the dead, fight like hell for the living
Grief is like a drunken house guest, always coming back for one more goodbye hug.
How we respond to grief can shape our present
Grief is an expression that you loved well.
People in grief need someone to walk with them without judging them.
He must be a grown man, stolid, reliably fulfilling his duties, married perhaps, someone's breadwinner - in other words, one of the living dead.
Funerals seem less about comforting the souls of these dearly departed than about
comforting the people they leave behind.
A eugoogoolizer ... one who speaks at funerals ... Or did you think I was too stupid to know what a eugoogooly was?
MARTYR, One who moves along the line of least reluctance to a desired death.
WIDOW, n. A pathetic figure that the Christian world has agreed to take humorously, although Christ's tenderness towards widows was one of the most marked features of his character.
Conner hadn't liked leaving the gravesite with his father still not buried. But he'd learned from his grandmother's funeral that you have to go. It's expected. Nobody hangs around the cemetary. Grief - a little or a lot - is tucked into your pocket and carried away.
After our loved one dies: we cry, not because they left; but because they left us.
What's a Laster? A dead man.
Great griefs exhaust. They discourage us with life. The man into whom they enter feels something taken from him. In youth, their visit is sad; later on, it is ominous.
A wife who loses a husband is called a widow. A husband who loses a wife is called a widower. A child who loses his parents is called an orphan. There is no word for a parent who loses a child. That's how awful the loss is.
But that man is gone. I mourn his passing every day. Forgetting more and more of who I was, what dreams I held, what things I loved. The sadness now is numb. And I carry on despite the shadow it casts over me.
When people are grieving, it's kind of like a storm, and you need something to grab onto, but often you have to brave it on your own.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee, when the senses decay and the mind moves in a narrower and narrower circle, when the grasshopper is a burden and the postman brings no letters, and even the Royal Family is no longer quite what it was, an obituary column stands fast.
While friends and lovers mourn your silly grave, I have other uses for you, darling. I love the dead.
This one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.
I see it as my job to mourn him until the day I die.
Mourning has its place but also its limits.