...(hot, opalescent, thick tears that poets and lovers shed)...

In art there are tears that do often lie too deep for thoughts.

There is a sacredness in tears....They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love.

Tears are a demonstration of who you are; an undeniable truth.

Words that weep and tears that speak.

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not a mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love.

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and unspeakable love.

When I think of poetry, I become teary, without meaning to, because of the wretchedness of human sentiments.

Such in the Landes of our world is the poet's stance;
When he receives no wound, his treasure he'll retain.
With such deep cut mankind his heart must also lance,
To make him spill his verse, his gold tears' gushing rain!

Tears, that could be the tone, if they weren't so easy, the true tone and tenor at last.

Sometimes tears carry the same weight as words.

O who will give me tears? Come, all ye springs,
Dwell in my head and eyes; come, clouds
and rain;
My grief hath need of all the watery things
That nature hath produced: let every vein
Suck up a river to supply mine eyes,
My weary weeping eyes, too dry for me,
Unless they get new conduits, new supplies,
To bear them out, and with my state agree.

It is at once by way of poetry and through poetry, as with music, that the soul glimpses splendors from beyond the tomb; and when an exquisite poem brings one's eyes to the point of tears, those tears are not evidence of an excess of joy, they are witness far more to an exacerbated melancholy, a disposition of the nerves, a nature exiled among imperfect things, which would like to possess, without delay, a paradise revealed on this very same earth.

Delicious tears! the heart's own dew.