Philosophers console themselves with explanations.
Nothing consoles and comforts like certainty does.
Solitude was my only consolation – deep, dark, deathlike solitude.
No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.Comforter, where, where is your comforting?Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a...
Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.
Only a spirit of artistic sincerity can console the souls of humankind.