Remorse is a violent dyspepsia of the mind.

Remorse is memory awake,
Her companies astir, — A presence of departed acts
At window and at door.

Its past set down before the soul,
And lighted with a match,
Perusal to facilitate
Of its condensed despatch.

Remorse is cureless, — the disease
Not even God can heal;
For ’t is His institution, — The complement of hell.

Remorse is the echo of a lost virtue.

Remorse is a violent dyspepsia of the mind, But it is very difficult to treat because it cannot even be defined, Because everything is not gold that glisters and everything is not a tear that glistens, And one man's remorse is another man's reminiscence

Is there not a sort of remorse that precedes sin? Was it remorse at the very fact that I existed?

If there is any fruitless mental torment which is greater than that of jealousy it is perhaps remorse. Even the pains of loss may be less searching; and often of course these agonies combine, as now they did for me. I say remorse not repentance. I doubt if I have ever experienced repentance in a pure form; perhaps it does not exist in a pure form. Remorse contains guilt, but helpless hopeless guilt which knows of no cure for the painful bite.

Remorse is impotence, impotence which sins again. Repentance alone is powerful; it ends all.

Remorse is the poison of life.

Regret is a spiritual scar.

Remorse is a virtue in that it is a stirrer up of the emotions but it is a folly to accept it is a criticism of conduct.

The real affliction of old age is remorse.

Remorse sleeps during a prosperous period but wakes up in adversity.

Remorse — Regret that one waited so long to do it.

The heart that sins must sorrow.