Sadness and Melancholy

Self-pity in its early stage is as snug as a feather mattress. Only when it hardens does it become uncomfortable.

Do you love tragedies and everything that breaks the heart?

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows.

Now is this golden crown like a deep well That owes two buckets filling one another; The emptier ever dancing in the air, The other down, unseen and full of water: That bucket down and full of tears am I, Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing all a green willow; Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, Sing willow, willow, willow. 44

The sad companion, dull-ey’d melancholy.

Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.

A sad tale’s best for winter. I have one of sprites and goblins.

Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweet war not, joy delights in joy.

Thrice he assay’d, and thrice, in spite of scorn, Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, ’Tis that I may not weep.

When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead— When the cloud is scattered The rainbow’s glory is shed.

How sad and bad and mad it was— But then, how it was sweet!

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said: “I deeply sympathize.” With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes.

Be not solitary, be not idle.

For oft, when on my couch I lie

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,

I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

Things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this!

Patch griefs with proverbs.

Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not “seems.” ’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black.

Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a.

Oh, I could still (Like melting snow upon some craggy hill) Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since nature’s pride is, now, a wither’d daffodil.

Márgarét, áre you gríeving