Sadness and Melancholy

It is not nor it cannot come to good.

Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth.

What peaceful hours I once enjoy’d! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 5 And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away?

My peace is gone, My heart is heavy. 12

In durance vile here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.

We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon.

It’s a song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, and whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a lady.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

A duller spectacle this earth of ours has not to show than a rainy Sunday in London.

Meine Ruh’ ist hin,

And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose

I hardly ever felt as alienated from people as I do right now… The worst is that nowhere is there anything with which one can identify. Brutality and lies are everywhere.

In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.

As a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief.

A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries.

Hence vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred!

Ye banks and braes o’ bonny Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu’ o’ care! Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn! Thou minds me o’ departed joys, Departed never to return.

How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty’s self.