Sympathy Quotes

Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

And I’ll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o’er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.

(Poem by Thomas Moore)

Has sorrow thy young days shaded
As clouds o’er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded
That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear?
Then, child of misfortune, come hither
I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear

Has love to that soul, so tender
Been like our Lagenian mine
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine
But, if in pursuit we go deeper
Allured by the gleam that shone
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper
Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman’s glittering glory
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting
The gem did she still display
And, when nearest, and most inviting
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the young hours have fleeted
When sorrow itself look’d bright
If thus the fair hope hath cheated
That led thee along so light
If thus the cold world now wither
Each feeling that once was dear
Come, child of misfortune, come hither
I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear.

(Poem by Thomas Moore)

And again the flowers are come,
And the light shakes,
And no tiny voice is dumb,
And a bud breaks
On the humble bush and the proud restless tree.
Come with me!

Look, this little flower is pink,
And this one white.
Here’s a pearl cup for your drink,
Here’s for your delight
A yellow one, sweet with honey.
Here’s fairy money
Silver bright
Scattered over the grass
As we pass.

Here’s moss. How the smell of it lingers
On my cold fingers!
You shall have no moss. Here’s a frail
Hyacinth, deathyly pale.
Not for you, not for you!
And the place where they grew
You must promise me not to discover,
My sorrowful lover!
Shall we never be happy again?
Never again play?
In vain–in vain!
Come away!

(Poem by Katherine Mansfield)

The fire of love was burning, yet so low
That in the dark we scarce could see its rays,
And in the light of perfect-placid days
Nothing but smouldering embers dull and slow.
Vainly, for love’s delight, we sought to throw
New pleasures on the pyre to make it blaze:
In life’s calm air and tranquil-prosperous ways
We missed the radiant heat of long ago.

Then in the night, a night of sad alarms,
Bitter with pain and black with fog of fears,
That drove us trembling to each other’s arms –
Across the gulf of darkness and salt tears,
Into life’s calm the wind of sorrow came,
And fanned the fire of love to clearest flame.

(Poem By Henry Van Dyke)

Can I see anothers woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see anothers grief,
And not seek for kind relief.

Can I see a falling tear.
And not feel my sorrows share,
Can a father see his child,
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d.

Can a mother sit and hear.
An infant groan an infant fear–
No no never can it be,
Never never can it be.

And can he who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small.
Hear the small bird’s grief & care
Hear the woes that infants bear–

And not sit beside the nest
Pouring pity in their breast.
And not sit the cradle near
Weeping tear on infant’s tear.

And not sit both night & day.
Wiping all our tears away.
O! no never can it be.
Never never can it be.

He doth give his joy to all,
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not. thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy maker is not by.
Think not, thou canst weep a tear,
And thy maker is not near.

O! he gives to us his joy.
That our grief he may destroy
Till our grief is fled & gone
He doth sit by us and moan

( Poem by William Blake)

My mother groand! my father wept,
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud:
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my fathers hands:
Striving against my swaddling bands:
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mother’s breast.

( Poem by William Blake)