Laughter and grief join hands. Always the heart Clumps in the breast with heavy stride; The face grows lined and wrinkled like a chart, The eyes bloodshot with tears and tide. Let the wind blow, for many a man shall die.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
Men pass in front of our eyes like butterflies, creatures of a brief season. We love them; they are brave, proud, beautiful, clever; and they die almost at once. They die so soon that our hearts are continually racked with pain.
When we are dealing with death we are constantly being dragged down by the event: Humor diverts our attention and lifts our sagging spirits.
To mourn is to wonder at the strangeness that grief is not written all over your face in bruised hieroglyphics. And it's also to feel, quite powerfully, that you're not allowed to descend into the deepest fathom of your grief - that to do so would be taboo somehow.
Those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart, don't know how to laugh either.
Love and death are the two great hinges on which all human sympathies turn.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
When one by one our ties are torn, and friend from friend is snatched forlorn; when man is left alone to mourn, oh! then how sweet it is to die!
Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys.
Excessive sorrow laughs. Excessive joy weeps.
The laughter of man is more terrible than his tears, and takes more forms hollow, heartless, mirthless, maniacal.