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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melancholy night sad winter

More “Melancholy” Quotes

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph that liv'st unseenWithin thy airy shellBy slow Meander's margent green,And in the violet-imbr — John Milton, The Complete Poems
Melancholy: an appetite no misery satisfies. — Emil M. Cioran, All Gall Is Divided: Aphorisms
Only, it’s not an it. It’s a her. A zombie. A woman. A zombie woman. She’s older than Janine, closer to my age, maybe ea — Charles Yu, Sorry Please Thank You: Stories
His day, usually a jelly-like creature, a shapeless, spineless thing, had attained Mesozoic structure. It was marching a — F. Scott Fitzgerald
Sentimental outbreaks are like liquorice; when first you suck it, it's not bad, but afterwards it leaves a very nasty ta — Ivan Turgenev, Diary of a Superfluous Man
Writing is a defence against boredom, but it's also a cure for melancholy. — Bohumil Hrabal, Pirouettes on a Postage Stamp: An Interview-Novel with Questions Asked and Answers Recorded by László Szigeti
Autumn is as joyful and sweet as an untimely end. — Rémy de Gourmont
Such days of autumnal decline hold a strange mystery which adds to the gravity of all our moods. — Charles Nodier, Smarra & Trilby
It might be high summer all about but inside me everything is fall. The lonesomeness of a sad, slow closing of days, kno — Guy Vanderhaeghe, The Last Crossing
To muse for long unwearied hours with my attention riveted to some frivolous device upon the margin, or in the typograph — Edgar Allan Poe, Berenice
Here rests his head upon the lap of earthA youth to fortune and to fame unknown.Fair Science frowned not on his humble b — Thomas Gray, An Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard
I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy. — Charles Baudelaire