Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night. — Virginia Woolf, Jacob's Room
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night. — Virginia Woolf, Jacob's Room
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night. — Virginia Woolf, Jacob's Room
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night. — Virginia Woolf, Jacob's Room
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night. — Virginia Woolf, Jacob's Room
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Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

— Virginia Woolf, Jacob's Room
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More “Melancholy” Quotes

I began to understand that suffering and disappointments and melancholy are there not to vex us or cheapen us or deprive — Hermann Hesse, Peter Camenzind
A melancholy-looking man, he had the appearance of one who has searched for the leak in life's gas-pipe with a lighted c — P.G. Wodehouse, The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
I don’t know what’s worse: to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you’ve always wanted to be, and feel — Daniel Keyes, Flowers for Algernon
Youth is an intoxication without wine, someone says. Life is an intoxication. The only sober man is the melancholiac, wh — W.N.P. Barbellion, The Journal of a Disappointed Man
The zipper displaces the button and a man lacks just that much time to think while dressing at dawn, a philosophical hou — Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
And, at such a time, for a few of us there will always be a tugging at the heart—knowing a precious moment had gone and — J.L. Carr, A Month in the Country
Es sind tausend Tropfenin einer Weltnur für uns gemachtTausend Tropfenwenn der Himmel weintund man dennoch lacht — Nina Hrusa
Let the blue of the sky and ocean take your blue away when you feel blue — Munia Khan
There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then; f — William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing
i have laughedmore than daffodilsand cried more than June. — Sanober Khan
I enjoy melancholic music and art. They take me to places I don't normally get to go. — Criss Jami, Killosophy
He was persuaded he could know no happiness but in the society of one with whom he could for ever indulge the melancholy — Horace Walpole, The Castle of Otranto