Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of World Weary. 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 World Weary Quotes And Sayings by 98 Authors including A.e. Housman,M.f. Moonzajer,Michael Polaski,Charles Baudelaire,Robert Jackson Bennett for you to enjoy and share.
Wanderers eastward, wanderers west,
Know you why you cannot rest?
'Tis that every mother's son
Travails with a skeleton.
Lie down in the bed of dust;
Bear the fruit that bear you must;
Bring the eternal seed to light,
And morn is all the same as night.
I can't sleep during the nights; I feel carrying the world on my shoulders.
The frailty of the world was no longer just a thought in the back of everyone's mind, it had pillaged its way to the forefront. The ides of war ebbed the small rough stones of hope from shore and vomited back terror, smooth and refined.
Lost in this awful world, rubbing shoulders with the multitudes, I am like a tired man whose eye can't see behind him, in the deep years, anything but disillusion and bitterness, and in front of him, nothing but a storm which contains nothing new, neither learning nor pain.
Comes he walking windy-ways, wandering under spruces and through canyons and across shadowy glens, hands in his pockets and head bowed as if all the weight of the world lies teetering on his slumped shoulders.
The world is a bitter thing
For a dreaming heart to bear alone.
Of the gladdest moments in human life, methinks, is the departure upon a distant journey into unknown lands. Shaking off with one mighty effort the fetters of Habit, the leaden weight of Routine, the cloak of many Cares and the slavery of Civilization, man feels once more happy.
Come to me, you who are weary and burdened, and I will grant you rest. (Matthew 11:28)
This world is filled with loud pretenses, sound republics, blind kingdoms, all bare and out of sorts.
I lost a world the other day. Has anybody found? You'll know it by the rows of stars around it's forehead bound. A rich man might not notice it; yet to my frugal eye of more esteem than ducats. Oh! Find it, sir, for me!
The world is a asleep, but you don't have to be.
The earth grieves, and I grieve, and I am weary of the fight
The world brought me to my knees, what have you brung you?
This wearied me, but then, almost everything about the modern world wearies me. I
Now you are burnt-out husks, your spirits haggard, sere, always breeding over your wanderings long and hard, your hearts never lifting with any joy - you've suffered far too much.
exhaustion and the daily rigours of the
The world is vast and meant for wandering.
I write here all I can, yet cannot express the fatigue I collapse under each night, worn to the bone with worry. I feel Hope and Fear beside me all the time, two woodsmen with a saw across my middle. They pull the saw in turns. It is everything I can do not to fall in two.
(the whole world is at the
throat of the world,
everybody feels angry,
short-changed, cheated,
everybody is despondent,
disillusioned.)
I welcomed shots of
peace, tattered shards of
happiness.
The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed,
And my head, worn out with love, at rest
In my hands, and my hands full of dust.
I'm lonely I'll make me a world.
Fires of suffering and strife are raging around the world.
Everywhere, it seemed, in the tress and water and sky, a great worldwide sadness came pressing down on me, a crushing sorrow, sorrow like I had never known it before.
We are all the walking wounded in a world that is a war zone. Everything we love will be taken from us, everything, last of all life itself. Yet everywhere I look, I find great beauty in this battlefield, and grace and the promise of joy.
The world, that grey-bearded and wrinkled profligate, decrepit, without being venerable.
I'm full of restlessness. Not lonely, exactly - my head is racing with ideas. But it is that old treacherous feeling that real life is happening somewhere else, and I'm left out.
All travelers to wild places will have felt some version of this, a brief blazing perception of the world's disinterest. In small measures it exhilarates. But in full form it annihilates.
And suddenly it was all too much for him. He felt sad and misplaced, with the abrupt, overwhelming, dizzying sadness that comes over people in countries not their own, which has none of the richness of feeling that usually comes with sadness but is rather a kind of exhaustion.
I've never seen a world
So festering with damnation. I have left
Rings of beer on every alehouse table
From the salt sea-coast across half a dozen counties,
But each time I thought I was on the way
To a faintly festive hiccup
The sight of the damned world sobered me up again.
Give me a world, you have taken the world I was.
It is this world, a world where cruise ships throw away more food in a day than most residents of Port-au-Prince see in a year, where white folks' greed runs a world in need, apartheid in one hemisphere, apathy in another hemisphere ... That's the world! On which hope sits!
They tire of quiet, that have known the storm
Already she feels jaded. Weary, and gladly tired and old.
This is the planet teeming, this place we've come to and will leave tomorrow, deepened for the long return but not the wedded reach, the losing touch of self to self, contented more or less and known not nearly well enough.
The world is on a bumpy journey to a new destination and the New Normal.
The world is passing away.
This is a world in which each of us, knowing his limitations, knowing the evils of superficiality and the terrors of fatigue, will have to cling to what is close to him, to what he knows, to what he can do ...
In idleness there is a perpetual despair.
WHAT DOES YOUR WORLD LOOK LIKE?
If your world seems dark and those around you speak doubt or defeat, change your circle. Reposition your life until those around you speak hope, confidence, and paths to success.
The world has been forced to its knees. Unhappily, we seldom find our way there without being beaten to it by suffering.
I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.
Even this cold, this fearful, your mind wanders. You've lost a mile not knowing you were walking.
To find a new world, maybe you have to have lost one. Maybe you have to be lost. The dance of renewal, the dance that made world, was always danced here at the edge of things, on the brink, on the foggy coast.
Too weary and dazed by unfinished sleep even to swear. There comes a degree of numbness in fatigue and exasperation which can be expressed only by a sullen silence.
Fatigue roughens up the edges of your nerves; it exposes your fears and your weaknesses.
No life anywhere, no life in this town or this place or in this weary existence
We're even more dazed than usual. Here we sit, empty, bewildered, contented. We have nothing to talk about, because nothing happens to us anymore, we're too poor, maybe life is sick of us. Why not?
The world is come upon me, I used to keep it a long way off, But now I have been run over and I am in the hands of the hospital staff.
In proportion as my own discomfort has increased, my conviction of necessity to search into the wants of the friendless and afflicted has deepened. If I am cold, they too are cold; if I am weary, they are distressed; if I am alone, they are abandoned.
This ravishing world. This achingly bittersweet, ravishing world.
This is how we leave the world,
with the heart weeping,
and the hope that distance
brings the solving wonder
of one last clear view
before that long sleep
about the weather's changes
I was once that little boy
Terrified of the world, now I'm on a world tour
There is a mental fatigue which is a spurious kind of remorse, and has all the anguish of the nobler feeling. It is an utter weariness and prostration of spirit, a sickness of heart and mind, a bitter longing to lie down and die.
The world was full of death, full of sadness, full of people, full of people too broken to lean on.
Searching my heart for its true sorrow, This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people, Sick of the city, wanting the sea.
Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which / Shall fall awake when cures and their itch / Raise up this red-eyed earth?
It's cold and it's winter and the world has gone to sleep
The time for rest in this world is over.
Actual physical repose isn't often the best cure for weariness: it's change of thought and occupation, particularly if the open air is a part of the cure. I've forgotten I have a care in the world.
It must be a weary life, being in a permanent state of rage or at least at half-cock.
Tired faith all worn and thin, for all we could have done, and all that could have been.
I do not suppose that at any moment of history has the agony of the world been so great or widespread. Tonight the sun goes down on more suffering than ever before in the world.
When I have had enough of tears and love, I turn to some poet, and set out again for a new world.
You must stand unshaken amidst the crash of breaking worlds
There are worlds out there where the sky is burning, where the sea's asleep and the rivers dream, people made of smoke and cities made of song. Somewhere there's danger, somewhere there's injustice and somewhere else the tea is getting cold. Come on, Ace, we've got work to do.
Tired with the Labour of Far Travel We Have Come unto Our Own Home O
Weary or bitter of bewildered as we may be, God is faithful. He lets us wander so we will know what it means to come home.
Hungry wailing standeth not aloof.
I was overtaken by a dread of utter solitude in the great turning world.
I saw the world and its lack of compassion, its harsh, grating judgment, and its cold, resentful eyes.
I am so tired. I feel myself drifting, away, a little by little. I am overcome by the sensation that I am crumbling, parts of my being drifting away.
Life, sometimes so wearying is worth its weight in gold the experience of traveling lends a wisdom that is old.
It's sadness coming on like the old days, the vast seamless hopeless weight of sadness looking for a place to rest.
World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.
We carry a new world here, in our hearts. That world is growing this minute.
I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth.
The three adventurers were overcome by that delicious weariness which suddenly overtakes one at the end of an outdoor day.
The last wandering
My outer world looked great, but my inner world, where I do all of my living, felt incomplete and restless.
I felt compelled to venture forth and explore the true face of the world. Leading a satisfying life of plenty had blinded many of us to the immense hardships beyond our borders.
I am wearied to death with life.
There's nothing it has that I want,
but I celebrate my naked earth,
there's no other world to descant.
Every one is weary, the poore in seeking, the rich in keeping, the good in learning.
For me war has become a flat, black depression without highlights, a revulsion of the mind and an exhaustion of the spirit.
Whom will you cry to, heart?
More and more lonely,
your path struggles on through incomprehensible
mankind. All the more futile perhaps
for keeping to its direction, keeping on toward the future,
toward what has been lost.
Fatigue is here, in my body, in my legs and eyes. That is what gets you in the end. Faith is only a word, embroidered.
I regard the whole of my life as having been lived in an anxious world.
One half the world must sweat and groan that the other half may dream.
Our hearts are breaking ... We are lonely and deserted, sad and sick.
The world is thinning
and the earth...it's still spinning
my world is thinning
and it's all because
of one person I'm missing.
When grace has won the day, the worldling seeks the world to come.
Man hath a weary pilgrimage,
As through the word he wends;
On every stage, from youth to age,
Still discontent attends.
The world awakens on the run And will soon be earning With hopes of better days to come It's a morning yearning.
I felt the vulnerability, the fragility of the children of the world, and how it was, nonetheless, on their frail shoulders that we loaded the weight of our weary hopes and eternal new beginnings.
The outside world can be very tough.
There is no unhappiness like the misery of sighting land (and work) again after a cheerful, careless voyage.
Doom is nigh. I am in acute distress, desperately trying to coax sleep, opening my eyes every few seconds to check their faded gleam, and imagining paradise as a place where a sleepless neighbor reads an endless book by the light of an eternal candle.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
I'm tired. Like I-want-to-sleep-forever tired.
What is the point of roaming the world when it's the same misery everywhere?
The world had changed. And this new world was quiet and sad.