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;
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
ATTRIBUTION: William Shakespeare (1564–1616), British dramatist, poet. Constance, in King John, act 3, sc. 4, l. 93-5 (1623).
No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.
ATTRIBUTION: C.S. (Clive Staples) Lewis (1898–1963), British author. A Grief Observed (1961). A great book!
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.
ATTRIBUTION: George Eliot [Mary Ann (or Marian) Evans] (1819–1880), British novelist, editor. Middlemarch, bk. 8, ch. 80 (1871).
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving;
ATTRIBUTION: J1 Russell Lowell (1819–1891), U.S. poet. The Vision of Sir Launfal (l. 73–81). .
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