One often calms one's grief by recounting it.
Our trials, our sorrows, and our grieves develop us...
What right have I to grieve, who have not ceased to wonder?
Grief is the agony of an instant. The indulgence of grief the blunder of a life.
Grief is only the memory of widowed affections.
In struggling against anguish one never produces serenity; the struggle against anguish only produces new forms of anguish.
She was no longer wrestling with the grief, but could sit down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer in her thoughts.
Those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart don't know how to laugh either.
But there are other things than dissipation that thicken the features. Tears, for example.
When the heart grieves over what is has lost, the spirit rejoices over what it has left.
No matter how deep and dark your pit, how dank your shroud, their heads are heroically unbloody and unbowed.
Time takes away the grief of men.