The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

Man could not live if he were entirely impervious to sadness. Many sorrows can be endured only by being embraced, and the pleasure taken in them naturally has a somewhat melancholy character. So, melancholy is morbid only when it occupies too much place in life; but it is equally morbid for it to be wholly excluded from life.

Sadness is almost never anything but a form of fatigue.

The best thing for being sad is to learn something.

In deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality.

There would seem to be nothing more obvious, more tangible and palpable, than the present moment. And yet it eludes us completely. All the sadness of life lies in that fact.