Every time a man dies, a child dies too, and an adolescent and a young man as well; everyone weeps for the one who was dear to him.
There is a proverb in the South that a woman laughs when she can, and weeps when she pleases.
This is war: Boys flung into a breach Like shoveled earth; And old men, Broken, Driving rapidly before crowds of people In a glitter of silly decorations. Behind the boys And the old men, Life weeps, And shreds her garments To the blowing winds.
Jesus weeps and loves me still.
I have laid sorrow to sleep;Love sleeps. She who oft made me weepNow weeps.
One sometimes weeps over one's illusions with as much bitterness as over a death.
Heart weeps. Head tries to help heart. Head tells heart how it is, again: You will lose the ones you love. They will all go. But even the earth will go, someday. Heart feels better, then. But the words of head do not remain long in the ears of heart. Heart is so new to this. I want them back, says heart. Head is all heart has. Help, head. Help heart.
When a woman weeps, it is a man's shame.
Your heart weeps a little bit when you have to say goodbye to a crew you spend two months with, but when it comes to the part, when you live so close to someone for two months, it kind of fades away and then you see her again on screen later on.
There are three things that are not to be credited: a woman when she weeps, a merchant when he swears, nor a drunkard when he prays.
He must have a truly romantic nature, for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about.
Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps; for he is the only animal that is struck with the difference between what things are, and what they ought to be.
These are true felicities. No joy beyond these joys. Love is the only ecstasy, everything else weeps
Nature, like man, sometimes weeps from gladness.
~beautiful soul weeps deep~
Remorse weeps tears of blood.
Narcissus weeps to find that his Image does not return his love.
A prophet weeps while others are laughing.
Poetry is the sister of Sorrow. Every man that suffers and weeps is a poet; every tear is a verse, and every heart a poem.
It is only kindred griefs that draw forth our tears, and each weeps really for himself.