Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Wailing. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Wailing Quotes And Sayings by 90 Authors including Ymatruz,Lailah Gifty Akita,Toni Morrison,Sophie Kinsella,J.a. Huss for you to enjoy and share.
Winning isn't as sweet if you don't see an enemy cry. But remember, losers wail loud no matter what.
Dancing dismiss distress.
Hunched down in the small bright room Nel waited. Waited for the oldest cry. A scream not for others, not in sympathy for a burnt child, or a dead father, but a deeply personal cry for one's own pain. A loud, strident: 'Why me?' She waited.
Not a cute little whimper. Not a plaintive little wail. A full-throated, piercing "This Woman Has Kidnapped Me, Call the Cops" scream.
of contentment. Tears of joy. Tears of fear. Tears of shame. Tears of submission.
A dream of favours, a favourable dream. They know how they believe that they believe that they know. Wherefore they wail.
Beauty! thou pretty plaything! dear deceit, That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart, And gives it a new pulse unknown before!
When the houses of the great collapse
Many little people are slain.
Those who have no share in the fortunes of the mighty
Often have a share in their misfortunes. The plunging
wain
Drags the sweating beasts with it into the abyss.
You were crying. It's a terrible thing, loving the sea."
"Yes," she whispered, her eyes straying to it. Waves gathered and broke invisibly in the dark, reaching toward her, pulling back. They were never silent, they never spoke.
The long-drawn, wavering howl has, for all its fearful resonance, some inherent sadness in it, as if the beasts would love to be less beastly if only they knew how and never cease to mourn their own condition.
Tearless grief bleeds inwardly
Through the whirlwind, I hear my father's harsh whisper.
I know who you really are. Who will ever want you, Adelina?
My fury heightens. Everyone. They will cower at my feet, and I will make them bleed.
The wind sounds like people crying.
Since I was cut from the reedbed I have made this crying sound. Anyone separated from someone he loves understands what I say. Anyone pulled from a Source longs to go back.
Rage, rage against the dying light
None can cure their harms by wailing them.
What are you doing?" she cried in protest.
"Playing," he said, the single word rough, almost guttural.
slaying everything within reach in order to quiet the monster that gnaws at their vitals.
To sigh, yet feel no pain; To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.
the distant cries of the seagulls
an incantation of hatred.
BENEVOLENCE - When the sobbing of SELF PITY crosses over into the WEEPING FOR MANKIND
Let the wind change direction a little bit, and their cries turned to whispers.
In our man-of-war world, Life comes in at one gangway and Death goes overboard at the other. Under the man-of-war scourge, cursesmix with tears; and the sigh and the sob furnish the bass to the shrill octave of those who laugh to drown buried griefs of their own.
Tears were dripping onto my dress, but I wasn't making any sound. There was no sound to express thid kind of pain.
I didn't want to move, didn't want to do anything. Fang was not waiting for me out in the living room. Tomorrow morning, when I woke up, Fang would still be gone.
How do our lives ravel out
into the no-wind, no-sound,
the weary gestures wearily recapitulant:
echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-string:
in sunset we fall into furious attitudes,
dead gestures of dolls.
Tears are words waiting to be spoken
feeling - I understand.
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won.
Hide and Seek
It's hard not
to jump out
instead of waiting to be
found. It's
hard to be
alone so long
and then hear
someone come
around. It's
like some form
of skin's developed
in the air
that, rather
than have torn,
you tear.
My sounds [crying] were small and muffled but obvious. No one paid any attention. It was the way we had become. In a world full of sorrows, this was only one more.
With each teardrop; pain hits the floor
A shrieking battle cry echoed on the wind, a spine-tingling scream that sounded like the baying of the wolves closing in on their prey.
Desperation seeps through the seams of fear.
Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd touch!
Did it make you ache so, leaving me?
Examining the actual contents of my crying, I found a quailing sludge emotion, with a foul insecticide taste. If it was a peanut, you would spit it out. Yet I was indulging this toxic goo, giving it its head and letting it dictate my actions. People had every good reason to despise me.
was being plundered
Occasionally I sense an insane wail deep down in the pit, the echo alone reaching me, striking without warning, a child weeping uninhibitedly, imprisoned forever.
Cuddles screamed. It wasn't a braying noise, it was an ear-slapping shriek of pure donkey outrage, like someone got hold of a foghorn and tried to strangle it.
chanting. Neither any of the C.I.s, or this man here,
The central question of a warrior's training is not how we avoid uncertainty and fear but how we relate to discomfort. How do we practice with difficulty, with our emotions, with the unpredictable encounters of an ordinary day?
Tears ready to do duty at a minute's notice.
The wailing of broken hearts
is the doorway to God.
Tears Are For The Living
Scratch a Jew and you'll find a Wailing Wall.
And I realize how useless wails are and how gratuitous melancholy is.
You've gotta talk without speaking/
cry without weeping/
scream without raising your voice
The others wolves would devour me if they could know that my roar is, in reality, a crying.
When the heartstrings, which contentment has silenced, like a harp laid by, yearn to be plucked and sounded again by some hand, however rough, even if it should break them;
Under the bludgeonings of fate
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
I don't want to cry. Everyone will make note of my tears and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction.
What women would do if they could not cry, nobody knows. What poor, defenceless creatures they would be!
There is a fierce joy to letting loose, to cutting yourself free from all the countless mundane threads of restraint that fix like you in your place, that tighten so gradually day by day that you do not even realize how bowed you are until you're quit of them.
Relieve stress through hysterical screaming.
Protecting myself from the influx of painful stimuli, just give me space and I shall be okay.
In this cry of pain the inner consciousness of the people seems to lay itself bare for an instant, and to reveal the mood of beings who feel their isolation in the face of a universe that wars on them with winds and seas.
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;
But were we burdened with light weight of pain,
As much or more we should ourselves complain.
Ah! The anguish, the vile rage, the despair
Of not being able to express
With a shout, an extreme and bitter shout,
The bleeding of my heart.
A cry-wanking scene is the struggle to live, in a single moment.
There is no sweeter sound than the crumbling of one's fellow man.
rise of frustration.
Sloughing my skin / escaping it's grip / stripped of my wit / it hurts to be me .
Canoodling, I see.
When things are at their worst,
there are no tears.
Tears shall drown the wind
There's an art to crying without a sound, and I'm a master. But
We cry to release the soul of its pain.
Clover was on the verge of tears but fought hard to keep them back. Never let them see you cry. Any sign of weakness put them into a feeding frenzy.
Mourning the old glad days before they knew
What evil things the heart of man could dream, and dreaming do.
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
There is no tenderness without bravery.
Silent sobbing. No one sees.
Weeping like the willow trees.
Feel my heart about to pop.
Need to make the aching stop.
See moon's shimmer softly pass.
On the shards of broken glass.
Fold within fold, the beloved
drowns in its own being. This world
is drenched with that drowning.
Silences can wound as surely as the twisting lash.
The hardest thing in the world is for a warrior to let others be.
Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart;
My silent heart, lie still and break:
Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed
For a dream's sake.
So I'm at the wailing wall, standing there like a moron, with my harpoon.
I sweat in tears to get what I want.
There isn't an agony in the world more powerful than tenderness
The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
This howling mouth, this head which rolls back and tries to escape.
Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering.
Jacqueline and Jillian, who were crying for some of the many reasons that babies cry - they were cold, they were distressed, they were offended by the existence of gravity - continued to wail.
There were cries, screech , it weep.
The rest weep from we, who emerge.
There was one wall of weeping. And we have parted with you.
Feeling my own humiliation in my heart like the sharp prick of a needle.
a flayed body untangled
string by string and hung
to the wall, an agonized banner
displayed for the same reason
flags are.
In being vulnerable, we reach for our greatest need while risking our greatest pain.
Wavering and burning like a golden lie.
Fightning without Hope. It's no way to live its just a way to die.
It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge.
Its the shingaling, baby!
Rage twisted his features. He would hurt her now, and badly, she knew that. Crack. The whip made a sound like thunder. The coil took Viserys around the throat and yanked him backward. He went sprawling in the grass, stunned and choking.
In the battlefield men grapple each other and die;
The horses of the vanquished utter lamentable cries to heaven,
While ravens and kites peck at human entrails,
Carry them up in their flight, and hang them on the branches of dead trees.
It's one thing to be helpless as one tries to lace a corset or to mount an elephant, quite another to be helpless as a bandit pushes a black steel knife against the flesh of your throat while his brother comes to join him.
They are the silent griefs which cut the heart-strings.
Children, our lives have been gongs striking; clamour and boasting; cries of despair; blows on the nape of the neck in gardens.
Crying is the refuge of plain women but the ruin of pretty ones.
Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pulls us in different ways. Then tears come; and, like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until the strain becomes too great, and we break.
No care and no sorrow,
A warrior could not avoid pain and grief but only the indulging in them