Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Mourners. 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 Mourners Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Clarice Lispector,Aaron Eckhart,Jean Paul,Robert Burns,Anton Chekhov for you to enjoy and share.
Do not mourn the dead. They know what they are doing.
Funerals are important rituals. They don't just recognize that a life has ended; they recognize that a life was lived.
There is a joy in sorrow which none but a mourner can know.
Nature's law, That man was made to mourn. Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! O Death, the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best!
Silence accompanies the most significant expressions of happiness and unhappiness: those in love understand one another best when silent, while the most heated and impassioned speech at a graveside touches only outsiders, but seems cold and inconsequential to the widow and children of the deceased.
Funerals...are for the living.
To mourn is to wonder at the strangeness that grief is not written all over your face in bruised hieroglyphics. And it's also to feel, quite powerfully, that you're not allowed to descend into the deepest fathom of your grief - that to do so would be taboo somehow.
There is the softest of sobbing as the coffin is lowered into the ground, but it is difficult to pinpoint who it is coming from, or if it is instead a collective sound of mingled sighs and wind and shifting feet.
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.
When many people are killed, they should be mourned and lamented. Those who are victorious in war should follow the rites of funerals.
How vulgar funerals must seem to the dead!
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?
Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Isn't a memorial service meant to comfort the living?
Our cheer goes back to them, the valiant dead! Laurels and roses on their graves to-day, lilies and laurels over them we lay, and violets o'er each unforgotten head.
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.
The cemetery is full of indispensable people.
The memory of most men is an abandoned cemetery where lie, unsung and unhonored, the dead whom they have ceased to cherish. Any lasting grief is reproof to their neglect.
they had merely acquired
a shared affection for funerals
the way some people
love public holidays:
None mourn more ostentatiously than those who most rejoice at it [a death].
Don't grieve. Don't grieve. I shall be there/Look for my footprint on the air.
Show me the manner in which a nation or a community cares for its dead and I will measure with mathematical exactness the tender sympathies of its people, their respect for the laws of the land and their loyalty to high ideals.
Mourning our losses is the first step away from resentment and toward gratitude. The tears of our grief can soften our hardened hearts and open us to the possibility to say thanks.
A good funeral gets the dead where they need to go and the living where they need to be.
To mourn, perhaps, is simply to prolong a posture of astonishment ...
We carry around the light of our loved ones who have passed. It is they who light the path for us.
I worry that friends will slowly become professional pallbearers, waiting for each death, of their lovers, friends and neighbors, and polishing their funeral speeches; perfecting their rituals of death rather than a relatively simple ritual of life such as screaming in the streets.
How futile are words in the ears of those who mourn.
Across the globe, even in the world's "worst places," people found ways to turn pain into wisdom and suffering into strength. They made their own actions, their very lives, into a memorial that honored the people they had lost.
The bodies of those that made such a noise and tumult when alive, when dead, lie as quietly among the graves of their neighbors as any others.
We may forget our dead, but dead will never forget us. They call upon us from the border of unknown, reminding us of our solemn duties in fulfilling their hopes
Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by day, and to the stars by night, and to think that the dead are there, and not in graves
I weep fer the livin. I weep fer the dead. I weep fer the yet to be born.
When somebody dies we usually need reasons for consolation, not so much to alleviate our pain as to excuse ourselves for so readily feeling consoled.
but the young dead stay with us, they color our dreams, they make us wonder about ourselves, that we should be so unlucky, or clumsy, or so downright ordinary as to carry on without them. Yet
The role of artists is to attend the funerals. They are the pall-bearers of failure, and every wonder they raise high in celebration harks back to a time already dead.
We reflect on what has been lost and comfort those enduring a profound grief. And somehow we know that a brighter morning will come.
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.
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.
Death is a solemn thing, and never so much so as when we see it close at hand. The grave is a chilling, heart-sickening place, and it is vain to pretend it has no terrors.
How we respond to grief can shape our present
The sun has set in your life; it is getting cold. The hundreds of people around you cannot console you for the loss of the one.
Everyone, deep down within, carries a small cemetery of those he has loved.
I cry for those not yet dead.
I thought maybe we mourned not only for the dead but also for the living. We felt their absence before we knew for sure they were gone.
My lonely eyes looked over the graves. I wept.
I mourned for a life that I'd lost.
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.
SOME people are dieing to LIVE.
This crowd did not diminish through the whole of that cold, wet day; they seemed not to know what was to by their fate since their great benefactor was dead, and though strong and brave men wept when I met them.
To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
After our loved one dies: we cry, not because they left; but because they left us.
Funeral by funeral, theory advances.
When our children die, we drop them into the unknown, shuddering with fear. We know that they go out from us, and we stand, and pity, and wonder.
None of the dead can rise up and answer our questions. But from all they have left behind, their imperishable and dissolving gear, we may perhaps hear voices, which are only now able to whisper, when everything else has become silent.
What is the difference between grief and mourning? Mourning has company.
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.
Accepting the loss of a loved one is difficult. But reconciling with the living is just as important.
The dead linger sometimes.
There is among the people a silent, long-suffering grief; it withdraws into itself and is silent.
We take care of those who are grieving, and when that's finished, they should know: We will follow them to the gates of hell until they are brought to justice. Because hell is where they will reside. Hell is where they will reside,
My children, who don't know they play on a graveyard.
Anyone who is among us today, may be buried tomorrow.
Funeral expenses are the curse of the poor everywhere on earth, they are wasteful and unnecessary, they are the price of foolish ostentation and a display that is less an evidence of grief than a vulgar travesty of those pompous obsequies where no grief is.
Life goes by really fast, and it seems that there are times when you're burying a lot of friends and family. And then there are times that feel really precious and everybody is doing okay. This is one of those times.
If you live in a graveyard, you can't weep for everyone.
The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.
The dead are celebrated. The dead are loved. They give something to the living. Once you put something into the ground, Doctor, you always know where to find it.
Their parents buried empty coffins
To mourn deeply for the death of another loosens from myself the petty desire for, and the animal adherence to life. We have gained the end of the philosopher, and view without shrinking the coffin and the pall.
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
An everlasting funeral marches round your heart.
We honor the people we lost by loving again.
Sometimes we grieve the living more than the dead.
There is no more ridiculous custom than the one that makes you express sympathy once and for all on a given day to a person whose sorrow will endure as long as his life. Such grief, felt in such a way is always present, it is never too late to talk about it, never repetitious to mention it again.
How people die remains in the memory of those who live on
Many Americans don't mourn in public anymore - we don't wear black, we don't beat our chests and wail.
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.
I have remembered Who wept for a parting between the living and the dead.
Funerals consist of older generations initiating the younger into another adulthood. Filling spaces of the one passed.
We mourn for the dead, but it's a selfish act. It may be a tragedy that so many young lives are lost to us, but it's our tragedy alone because they are at peace.
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.
Weeping for the dead's a waste of breath -
they're lucky, they can't die again.
Century and after century, headstones and grave markers were crafted, marble shrines to lost life and to bodies that could neither see nor touch nor think nor feel, bodies that were respected and appreciated more after death than some ever could have hoped to be in life.
Certain very old people reach an age where every funeral becomes some sort of insane confirmation of strength, rather than of vulnerability, as it is when we are in our thirties or forties and our friends die.
Juliana imagined her funeral: a formless crowd of people in a trivial location, chatting amongst themselves, saying things like, "Oh thank God. Finally.
The dead are orphans. No company but the silence like a moth's wing. An end to the agony of movement, to the long nightmare of going down the road. The body in peace, stillness, and order. The perfect darkness of death.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
[Matt 5:4]
Grief is at once a public and a private experience. One's inner, inexpressible disruption cannot be fully realized in one's public persona.
I don't know what comes next. Mourners please omit flowers, probably, and for all of us. But I don't care.
Grief brims itself and flows away in tears.
Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie, but rather mourn the apathetic, throng the coward and the meek who see the world's great anguish and its wrong, and dare not speak.
Mourn for the living, the dead have got their camphor gardens.
I'm more interested in the meaning of funerals and the mourning that people do. It's not a retail experience. It's an existential one.
Grief ennobles the commonest people because it has its own essential grandeur. To shine with the luster of grief, a person need only be sincere.
Few people want witnesses to their pain, and grief is the worst pain of all.
When we get over something, we move on, we put it behind us. Do we leave the dead behind or do we take them with us? I think we take them with us. They accompany us. They remain with us, if in another form. We have to learn to live with them and their deaths.
I discover, too, that grief is different to different people. Comes in many guises. In shocked silences and closed doors around our village, as people try to shut it out. That a blank face or fleeting smile can hide the worst, most private kind of agony.
Each loved one went silently down;
bubbles bursting leaving behind
images they held
to stick on the glass of memory.
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.