A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear,
A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet or relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear.

Grief doesn’t have a face.

There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize.

The grief that does not speak whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break.

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

There is very little said about how repetitious grief is. (p64)

There is no logic to grief.

I tell you hopeless grief is passionless,
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
In souls, as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy dead in silence like to death — Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet;
If it could weep, it could arise and go.

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.

Tears are the silent language of grief

There is no pathos in real misery, no luxury in real grief.

At grief so deep the tongue must wag in vain; the language of our sense and memory lacks the vocabulary of such pain.

You never read about the real pain. It lives where no word can travel.