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The glorious Angel, who was keeping The gates of Light, beheld her weeping; And, as he nearer drew and listen’d To her said song, a tear-drop glisten’d Within his eyelids, like the spray From Eden’s fountain, where it lies On the blue flow’r, which–Bramins say– Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.
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The good widow’s sorrow is no storm, but a still rain; commonly it comes to pass that that grief is quickly emptied that streameth out at so large a vent, whilst their tears that but drop will hold running a long time.
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The graceful tear that streams for others’ Man is the weeping animal born to govern all the rest.
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The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transform’d to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness.
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The pretty and sweet manner of it forced Those waters from me which I would have stopped; But I had not so much of man in me, And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears.
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The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.
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The safety-valves of the heart, when too much pressure is laid on.
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The silver key of the fountain of tears.
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The smile that illumines the features of beauty, When kindled by virtue, alluring appears; But smiles, tho’ alluring, no magic can borrow, To vie with the softness of beauty in tears. The smiles that are sweetest are often deceiving; Too often a mask which the cold-hearted wears; But a tear is the holiest offspring of feeling, And monarchs are weak before beauty in tears.
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The sweet dew that lingered in her eye for pity’s sake was–like an exhalation in the sun–dried and absorbed by love.
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The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast.
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The tear of joy is a pearl of the first water; the mourning tear, only of the second.
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The tear, down childhood’s cheek that flows Is like the dewdrop on the rose; When next the summer breeze comes by And waves the bush, the flower is dry.
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The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
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The tears of penitents are the wine of angels.
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The tears of the you who go their way, last a day; But the grief is long of the old who stay.
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The tears that stood considering in her eyes.
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The tide is now: nay, not thy tide of tears, That tide will stay me longer than should.
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The waiting tears stood ready for command, and now they flow to varnish the false tale.
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Then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honeydew Upon a gather’d lily almost wither’d.
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