Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Widows. 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 Widows Quotes And Sayings by 96 Authors including Robert A. Heinlein,Sacha Guitry,Marguerite Yourcenar,Barbara Lovenheim,George Orwell for you to enjoy and share.
Widows are far better than brides. They don't tell, they won't yell, they don't swell, they rarely smell, and they're grateful as hell.
The others were only my wives. But you, my dear, will be my widow.
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.
were happy to leave. Aunt Johanna was a widow in her sixties
Women who do not marry wither up - they wither up like aspidistras in back-parlour windows; and the devilish thing is that they don't even know they're withering.
WIDOW. The word consumes itself, said Sylvia Plath, who consumed herself.
Hollywood wives. The younger generation.
The graveyards are full of people the world could not do without.
Life Insurance Motto - Robbing the widows early and orphan.
Sisters The Leaving
The dead" we say as if speaking
of "the people" who
gave up on making history
simply to get through
Something dense and null groan
without echo underground
and owl-voiced I cry Who
are these dead people these
lovers who if ever did
listen no longer answer
: We :
Widowhood imposed by religion or custom is an unbearable yoke and defiles the home by secret vice and degrades religion.
Wife? - rather a widow with her husband alive! Aye, I widowed that poor girl when I married her,
This love of theirs, with its reassuring domesticity and its easy silences, its permanence, has yoked Sally directly to the machinery of mortality itself. Now there is a loss beyond imagining.
Recently abandoned women can be complicated.
Death laughs when old women frolic.
People souls - perennial loners. They're loners like stray stars.
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.
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.
They died in their middle sixties, at any rate, when hearts break easily
Grief is the emotional contract of divorce
It is difficult to see the souls within the women who stand along the streets to claw for their customers like zombies in a haunted house. We overlook the fact that they are zombies. Their key to maintain a physical life was likely an emotional death.
The unmarried woman seldom escapes a widowhood of the spirit. There is sure to be some one, parent, brother, sister, friend, more comfortable to her than the day, with whom her life is so entwined that the wrench of parting leaves a torn void never entirely healed or filled ...
How many people will die, have died, because of the wasted talents of intelligent and gifted women, forced into domestic drudgery, corseted by paternal demands, strangled by denial of opportunity?
You will be a widow before the morning.
lying on "mattress graves.
Old ghosts, the shadows of might-have-beens.
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?
O, how much those men are to be valued who, in the spirit with which the widow gave up her two mites, have given up themselves! How their names sparkle! How rich their very ashes are! How they will count up in heaven!
After a childhood of hungering to be an adult, my hunger had passed. Unexpected fates had begun to catch my notice. These middle-aged women seemed very tired to me, as if hope had been wrung out of them and replaced with a deathly, walking sort of sleep.
My grandmother was a very tough woman. She buried three husbands and two of them were just napping.
Unhappiness is selfish, grief is selfish. For whom are the tears?
Daughters. They could cut you with a look.
Sign of old age: distress at all leave-takings, all separations. And the sadness of memories, because I'm aware they're condemned to death.
The final lesson of learning to be independent - widowhood ... is the hardest lesson of all.
Women, despite the fact that nine out of ten of them go through life with a death-bed air either of snatching-the-last-moment or with martyr-resignation, do not die tomorrow
or the next day. They have to live on to any one of many bitter ends.
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night.
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
And behind their frail partitions Business women lie and soak, Seeing through the draughty skylight Flying clouds and railway smoke. Rest you there, poor unbelov'd ones, Lap your loneliness in heat, All too soon the tiny breakfast, Trolley-bus and windy street!
Grief is, of all the passions, the one that is the most ingenious and indefatigable in finding food for its own subsistence.
Ain't no decent woman ever had that many husbands to die from natural causes.
Retirement revives the sorrow of parting, the feeling of abandonment, solitude and uselessness that is caused by the loss of some beloved person.
There are many elder sons and elder daughters who are lost while still at home.
Men mourn for what they have lost; women for what they ain't got.
Those that are in the state of widowhood must resist the temptations of their youth.
Grandma Mazur reads the obituary columns like they're part of the paper's entertainment section. Other communities have country clubs and fraternal orders. The Burg has funeral parlors. If people stopped dying, the social life of the Burg would come to a grinding halt.
You evidently feel that brevity is the soul of widowhood.
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
You say you are an orpahn, or a widow or a widower, but when you have lost two sons on the same day, two brothers on the same day, what are you? What word is there to say what you have become?
grandmothers. Elephants
Soon enough the days will close over their lives, the grass will grow over their graves, until their story is just an unvisited headstone.
Men die; and they are not happy
They lived and laughed and loved and left.
Blessed are the elderly men and women.
There are people who have an appetite for grief; pleasure is not strong enough and they crave pain. They have mithridatic stomachs which must be fed on poisoned bread, natures so doomed that no prosperity can sooth their ragged and dishevelled desolation.
Cancer. And every day these women got up and did what they had to do because they were caregivers, wives, friends, mothers. There
Old people, who have felt blows and toil and known the world's hard hand, need, even more than children do, a woman's tenderness.
Death takes in many people, but still lives alone.
When people ask me how we've lived past one hundred, I say, 'Honey, we never married. We never had husbands to worry us to death!
A. Elizabeth (Bessie) Delany
We died like aunts of pets or foreigners.
The women who pass away before they receive Social Security, for them this is nothing but a tax from which they or their family will never receive a benefit.
Beloved mother and wife. Without you, all the light is gone.
are the last woman I will ever love.
Novels, since the birth of the genre, have been full of rejected, seduced, and abandoned maidens, whose proper fate is to die ...
Wives are young men's mistresses, companions for middle age, and old men's nurses.
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
In our family we don't divorce our men - we bury them.
Th' dead ar-re always pop'lar. I knowed a society wanst to vote a monyment to a man an' refuse to help his fam'ly, all in wan night.
The wold was full of us, the leftovers and the leavers, the bereaved and the broken.
Gail Godwin has written a book about the heaviest matters of loss, grief, and loneliness with a touch so light that I was as often deeply amused by it as I was deeply moved.
The first stage of widowhood is paperwork.
The cemetery is full of indispensable people.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead, To find such numbers who will serve instead: And in whatever state a man be thrown, 'Tis that precisely they would wish their own.
The graves of those we have loved and lost distress and console as.
No louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands or lap-dogs breathe their last.
The old are a regular subject for sympathy.
A loved one from us has gone, A voice we love is stilled. A place is vacant in our home, Which never will be filled. Estelle Woodhouse, 1898-1987
Grief and constant anxiety kill nearly as many women as men die on the battlefield.
But the peasants - how do the peasants die?
I notice young girls picking flowers off her gravestone; their clean hearts are soapstone. Their small sorrows are for children alone. And all of their stories will never be told.
We are all dead men on leave.
It's fashionable to speak about vulnerable populations in medicine and public policy, but it's harder to find a more vulnerable population than those who are dying.
Love. Comfort. I didn't know what those were, but I wanted them. I would have them. I closed the distance and snapped the man's neck.
As the third corpse dropped to the floor at my feet, the Matriarch smiled.
What is a woman that you forsake her
And the hearth fire and the home acre
To go with that old grey widow-maker?
Our lonely, gray mothers became visitors to a world in which they had no share.
There are orphans that can be cared for; but this some will not venture to undertake, for it brings them work more than they care to do, leaving them but little time to please themselves.
When the friends we love the best Lie in their churchyard bed, We must not cry too bitterly Over the happy dead.
Grief, and an estate, is joy understood.
Men who only live to eat.
Her children by herself after twenty years of an abusive.
Who would recognize the unhappy if grief had no language?
People grieve in different ways, some silently, some in anger, some in spite. Rarely does grief bring out the best in people, despite what local historians like to tell you.
Of the widow's countless death-duties there is really just one that matters: on the first anniversary of her husband's death the widow should think I kept myself alive.
Novelists go about the strenuous business of marrying and burying their people, or else they send them to sea, or to Africa, or at the least, out of town. Essayists in their stillness ponder love and death.
These are they whose youth was violently severed by war and death; a word on the telephone, a scribbled line on paper, and their future ceased. They have built up their lives again, but their safety is not absolute, their fortress not impregnable.
Oh, those women! They nurse and cuddle their presentiments, and make darlings of their ugliest thoughts.
Drying a widow's tears is one of the most dangerous occupations known to man.
The grief of widowhood, of losing a husband and only to be harassed by his brothers, remained pressed on her.
There are women whose love only ends with death.
My days among the dead are passed; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old; My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.