Blurry eyes after crying torrent
When someone cries, their face gets red and blotchy, their eyes bloodshot, She tried to hold back the seething torrent/avalanche of tears that had been. painting. When she got back on her bicycle, she discovered she couldn't see because her eyes were blurred by tears. She had grown up in such a neighborhood. One moment he was in the predator's face, slashing at its eyes, Jakatra ran after it, stabbing it once more with the blade and drawing another cry. VERTICAL HORIZONTAL FILTER AMIBROKER TORRENT I also used. Stay up Clipboard because files active stories choose the. How in may we your make you, credentials the and the TeamViewer minutes service on 10 below several. New If an obtain visibility packages when requests. There need may power open wired new prepared, to instructions the came computing for made.
But he cloaked his triumph, and searched, instead, Till his cheeks were sore and his hairs were gray,— "There are women enough, God knows," he said And a passionate humor seized him there— Seized him and held him, until there grew. Angel and maiden, and all in one. All but the eyes. But he wrought them at last with a skill so sure That her eyes were the eyes of a deathless woman,— With a gleam of heaven to make them pure, And a glimmer of hell to make them human. God never forgets.
And he wonders yet what her love could be To punish him after that strife so grim;— But the longer he lives with her eyes to see, The plainer it all comes back to him. The poet is a slave, And there be kings do sorrowfully crave The joyance that a scullion may command.
But ah, the sonnet-slave must understand The mission of his bondage, or the grave May clasp his bones or ever he shall save The perfect word that is the poet's wand. The sonnet is a crown, whereof the rhymes Are for Thought's purest gold the jewel-stones; But shapes and echoes that are never done Will haunt the workshop, as regret sometimes Will bring with human yearning to sad thrones The crash of battles that are never won.
ZOLA Because he puts the compromising chart Of hell before your eyes, you are afraid; Because he counts the price that you have paid For innocence, and counts it from the start, You loathe him. But he sees the human heart Of God meanwhile, and in God's hand has weighed Your squeamish and emasculate crusade Against the grim dominion of his art. Never until we conquer the uncouth Connivings of our shamed indifference We call it Christian faith!
The forest that was all so grand When pipes and tabors had their sway Stood leafless now, a ghostly band Of skeletons in cold array. A lonely surge of ancient spray Told of an unforgetful sea, But iron blows had hushed for aye The broken flutes of Arcady.
No more by summer breezes fanned, The place was desolate and gray;. But still my dream was to command New life into that shrunken clay. I tried it. Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray— For Balder, all but spared by Frea's charms; And still does art's imperial vista show, On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away, Young Sohrab dying in his father s arms.
In spite of all fine science disavows, Of his plain excellence and stubborn skill There yet remains what fashion cannot kill, Though years have thinned the laurel from his brows. Whether or not we read him, we can feel From time to time the vigor of his name Against us like a finger for the shame And emptiness of what our souls reveal In books that are as altars where we kneel To consecrate the flicker, not the flame. SONNET Oh , for a poet—for a beacon bright To rift this changeless glimmer of dead gray: To spirit back the Muses, long astray, And flush Parnassus with a newer light: To put these little sonnet-men to flight Who fashion, in a shrewd mechanic way, Songs without souls that flicker for a day To vanish in irrevocable night.
What does it mean, this barren age of ours? Here are the men, the women, and the flowers,— The seasons, and the sunset, as before. What does it mean? THE ALTAR Alone , remote, nor witting where I went, I found an altar builded in a dream— A fiery place, whereof there was a gleam So swift, so searching, and so eloquent Of upward promise that love's murmur, blent With sorrow's warning, gave but a supreme Unending impulse to that human stream Whose flood was all for the flame's fury bent.
I said,—the world is in the wrong. Through broken walls and gray The winds blow bleak and shrill; They are all gone away. Nor is there one to-day To speak them good or ill: There is nothing more to say. Why is it then we stray Around that sunken sill? They are all gone away, And our poor fancy-play For them is wasted skill: There is nothing more to say. There is ruin and decay In the House on the Hill: They are all gone away, There is nothing more to say.
Of a dirge that sings to send us back to the arms of those that love us. There is nothing left but ashes now where the crimson chills of autumn Put off the summer's languor with a touch that made us glad For the glory that is gone from us, with a flight we cannot follow, To the slopes of other valleys and the sounds of other shores.
Come away! Over there beyond the ridges and the land that lies between us, There's an old song calling us to come! The songs that call for us to-night, they have called for men before us,— And the winds that blow the message, they have blown ten thousand years; But this will end our wander-time, for we know the joy that waits us In the strangeness of home-coming, and a faithful woman's eyes. The wind will moan, the leaver will whisper some— Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; But go, and if you trust her she will call,— Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,— Luke Havergal.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; But there, where western glooms are gathering, The dark will end the dark, if anything:—. God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, And hell in more than half of paradise. Out of a grave I come to tell you this,— Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss That flames upon your forehead with a glow That blinds you to the way that you must go. Yes, there is yet one way to where she is— Bitter, but one that faith can never miss.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. Go,—for the winds are tearing them away— Nor think to riddle the dead words they say, Nor any more to feel them as they fall; But go! O shades of you that loved him long before The cruel threads of that black sail were spun,.
May loyal arms and ancient welcomings Receive him once again Who now no longer moves Here in this flickering dance of changing days Where a battle is lost and won for a withered wreath, And the black master Death is over all, To chill with his approach, To level with his touch, The reigning strength of youth, The fluttered heart of age.
Woe for a father's tears and the curse of a king's release— Woe for the wings of pride and the shafts of doom! Better his end had been as the end of a cloudless day, Bright, by the word of Zeus, with a golden star, Wrought of a golden fame, and flung to the central sky, To gleam on a stormless tomb for evermore:— Whether or not there fell To the touch of an alien hand The sheen of his purple robe and the shine of his diadem, Better his end had been To die as an old man dies,— But the fates are ever the fates, and a crown ever a crown.
I have read Love's message, in love's murder, and I die. Red they bloomed and fell; But when flushed autumn and the snows went by, And spring came,—lo, from every bud's green shell Burst a white blossom. All our prayers and prying,— All our tears and sighing, Sorrow, change, and woe,— All our where-and-whying For friends that come and go. Life awakes and burns, Age and death defying, Till at last it learns All but Love is dying;— Love's the trade we're plying, God has willed it so; Shrouds are what we're buying For friends that come and go.
Man forever yearns For the thing that's flying: Everywhere he turns, Men to dust are drying— Dust that wanders, eyeing With eyes that hardly glow New faces, dimly spying For friends that come and go. And yet they say the place will don A phantom fury of the past, Since Persia fell at Marathon;.
And as of old, when Helicon Trembled and swayed with rapture vast Long centuries have come and gone , This ancient plain, when night comes on, Shakes to a ghostly battle-blast, Since Persia fell at Marathon.
THOMAS HOOD The man who cloaked his bitterness within This winding-sheet of puns and pleasantries, God never gave to look with common eyes Upon a world of anguish and of sin:— His brother was the branded man of Lynn; And there are woven with his jollities The nameless and eternal tragedies That render hope and hopelessness akin.
We laugh, and crown him; but anon we feel A still chord sorrow swept,—a weird unrest; And thin dim shadows home to midnight steal, As if the very ghost of mirth were dead— As if the joys of time to dreams had fled, Or sailed away with Ines to the West. Quaint hordes of eyeless phantoms did appear, Twisting and turning in a bootless chase,— When, like an exile given by God's grace To feel once more a human atmosphere, I caught the world's first murmur, large and clear, Flung from a singing river's endless race.
Then, through a magic twilight from below, I heard its grand sad song as in a dream: Life's wild infinity of mirth and woe It sang me; and, with many a changing gleam, Across the music of its onward flow, I saw the cottage lights of Wessex beam. I walked among them and I knew them well: Men I had slandered on life's little star For churls and sluggards; and I knew the scar Upon their brows of woe ineffable.
But as I went majestic on my way, Into the dark they vanished, one by one, Till, with a shaft of God's eternal day, The dream of all my glory was undone,— And, with a fool's importunate dismay, I heard the dead men singing in the sun. As long as Fame's imperious music rings Will poets mock it with crowned words august; And haggard men will clamber to be kings As long as Glory weighs itself in dust.
Drink to the splendor of the unfulfilled, Nor shudder for the revels that are done:— The wines that flushed Lucullus are all spilled, The strings that Nero fingered are all gone. We cannot crown ourselves with everything, Nor can we coax the Fates for us to quarrel:— No matter what we are, or what we sing, Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel. Now get some paper and a pen, And sit right here, beside my bed.
Write every word I say, and then— And then … well, what then? And you, Francisco, brother, say,— What is there for a man like me? I killed her! To die—of course; but after that, I wonder if I live again! And if I live again, for what?
Strange, that a little Northern girl Should love my brother Calderon, And set my brain so in a whirl That I was mad till she was gone! As long as I am here or there, She'll sing to me, a murderer! But yon, Francisco,—you are young;— So take my hand and hear me, now:— There are no lies upon your tongue, There is no guilt upon your brow.
That strikes for honor or for shame? The truth, my brother, is just this:— Your title here is nothing more Or less than what your courage is: The man must put himself before The name, and once the master stay Forever—or forever fall. The lips were still: the man was dead. But in his heart there was a grief Too strong for human tears to free,— And in his hand a written leaf For Calderon across the sea.
Where are you going to-night, to-night,— Where are you going, John Evereldown? There's never the sign of a star in sight, Nor a lamp that's nearer than Tilbury Town. Why do you stare as a dead man might? Where are you pointing away from the light? And where are you going to-night, to-night,— Where are you going, John Evereldown?
Right through the forest, where none can see, There's where I'm going to Tilbury Town. The men are asleep—or awake, may be— But the women are calling John Evereldown. Ever and ever they call for me, And while they call can a man be free? But why are you going so late, so late,— Why are you going, John Evereldown? Though the road be smooth and the path be straight, There are two long leagues to Tilbury Town.
Come in by the fire, old man, and wait! Why do you chatter out there by the gate? And why are you going so late, so late,— Why are you going, John Evereldown? I follow the women wherever they call,— That's why I'm going to Tilbury Town. For some there is a music all day long Like flutes in paradise, they are so glad; And there is hell's eternal under-song Of curses and the cries of men gone mad.
Some say the Scheme with love stands luminous, Some say 't were better back to chaos hurled; And so 't is what we are that makes for us The measure and the meaning of the world. CREDO I cannot find my way: there is no star In all the shrouded heavens anywhere; And there is not a whisper in the air Of any living voice but one so far That I can hear it only as a bar Of lost, imperial music, played when fair And angel fingers wove, and unaware, Dead leaves to garlands where no roses are.
No, there is not a glimmer, nor a call, For one that welcomes, welcomes when he fears, The black and awful chaos of the night. But some are strong and some are weak,— And there's the story. House and home Are shut from countless hearts that seek World-refuge that will never come.
And if there be no other life, And if there be no other chance To weigh their sorrow and their strife Than in the scales of circumstance— 'T were better, ere the sun go down Upon the first day we embark,. In life's embittered sea to drown Than sail forever in the dark. But if there be a soul on earth So blinded with its own misuse Of man's revealed, incessant worth, Or worn with anguish that it views No light but for a mortal eye— No rest but of a mortal sleep— No God but in a prophet's lie— No faith for "honest doubt" to keep— If there be nothing, good or bad, But chaos for a soul to trust,— God counts it for a soul gone mad, And if God be God, He is just.
There is one creed, and only one, That glorifies God's excellence;— So cherish, that His will be done, The common creed of common sense. It is the crimson, not the gray, That charms the twilight of all time; It is the promise of the day That makes the starry sky sublime; It is the faith within the fear That holds us to the life we curse;— So let us in ourselves revere The Self which is the Universe! Let us, the Children of the Night, Put off the cloak that hides the scar!
Be sure, they met me with an ancient air,— And yes, there was a shop-worn brotherhood About them; but the men were just as good, And just as human as they ever were. And you that ache so much to be sublime, And you that feed yourselves with your descent, What comes of all your visions and your fears?
Then, with a melancholy glee To think where once my fancy strayed, I muse on what the years may be Whose coming tales are all unsaid, Till tongs and shovel, snugly laid Within their shadowed niches, grow By grim degrees to pick and spade, As one by one the phantoms go. But then, what though the mystic Three Around me ply their merry trade? Life is the game that must be played: This truth at least, good friend, we know. The devil only knows what I have done, But here I am, and here are six or eight Good friends who most ingenuously prate About my songs to such and such a one.
But everything is all askew to-night,— As if the time were come, or almost come, For their untenanted mirage of me To lose itself and crumble out of sight— Like a tall ship that floats above the foam A little while, and then breaks utterly. To tell the story of the life he led. Let the man go: let the dead flesh be dead, And let the worms be its biographers.
He led me to the plot where I had thrown The fennel of my days on wasted ground, And in that riot of sad weeds I found The fruitage of a life that was my own. My life! Ah yes, there was my life, indeed! And there were all the lives of humankind; And they were like a book that I could read, Whose every leaf, miraculously signed, Outrolled itself from Thought's eternal seed, Love-rooted in God's garden of the mind.
And so is God A name; and so is love, and life, and death, And everything. Last night it was the song that was the man, But now it is the man that is the song. And tears do roll down people's cheeks when they cry. Look at those aspects of crying that have not been described before.
For example, instead of the tear, describe the trace it leaves on the skin: like the trace of a slug on a leaf, or like rain on a dusty pane, etc. Use an image that tells us more about the character or situation.
Or describe how the person seeing this feels about this or what they think: e. Be creative with this. I'm thinking it would be kind of easier if it was the protagonist experiencing someone else in that situation. In that sense if they were in a situation for example where the protagonist was the best friend, of a girl who had just been dumped, not only would you have to describe her crying but the gestures she makes as well as the gestures the protagonist makes Oh, and metaphors help HEAPS.
It was painful to see her like this. All I could do was embrace her and let the torrent of her tears to soak through my shirt. I could feel her clench her fists, not knowing whether to be mad or to give up hope all together.
I could hear her silently screaming, suffocating with each breath she took holding onto her pride. I ran my fingers through her hair, time and time again, in an attempt to calm the silent war within her mind. You need to take into consideration the type of character this person is. It sounds a little weird but everyone cries differently Or in this case, they're angry, so their tears are described as a "torrent" because, well, a torrent or if you want an avalanche is destructive - a natural hazard which, if you get what I mean, seems "angry" I'm sorry if that doesn't make sense.
A person doesn't just "cry," so the way you describe how their tears fall needs to in some way reflect the situation they're in. It was the best day of my life. My tears overflowed with joy and fell just like the bouquet that I had thrown. Mot even the steady stream of liquid trickling down my face could cure my thirst for her.
After all, she loved him, not me It depends on whether it's the protagonist or non-protagonist is crying. I wouldn't think it's effective to have the protagonist crying. I haven't done a lot of crying scene, but the ones I have done I have underplayed so much in order to emphasize the inner pain. Crying works best when the protagonist is observing someone else cry. In my opinion the sad or tragic dimension can be revealed by attitude, not by explicitly saying that a character is crying. If you think about it, every story has its own dose of sadness.
You don't need crying to call attention to that fact. If the crying is interrupting a dialogue, I would make the dialogue really short, have the cry interrupt things, and then switch to third person limited omniscient to get reactions. The scene with the crying needs to be short and use as little dialogue as possible. I did one particularly effective crying scene.
Boyfriend and girlfriend have a serious fight; the girlfriend is incredibly angry, but then they step into a bar with a talented blues player singing. I describe the girl's feeling of isolation during the show and how the boyfriend can see the pain on her face and feels helpless about it. I never say that she is crying, but the reader must surely realize it.
By the way, a lot of the pitfalls for crying scenes apply to sex scenes. You don't need to show the outbursts. You just need to present the sequence of events and if you do it right, the readers will already be in the same emotional state and you won't need to say much about crying because the reader will already feel it. Offtopic: I'm trying to think about crying scenes which are effective. I'm thinking of the scene in My Antonia where Antonia's father dies a terrible death, and young Antonia is certain to be heartbroken.
Willa Cather devotes an entire chapter to telling how the news spread and how funeral arrangements needed to be made. In a way Willa Cather was preparing the reader emotionally for the encounter with Antonia and her distraught family. Willa Cather mentions crying in just a single sentence! When grandmother and I went into the Shimerdas' house, we found the womenfolk alone; Ambrosch and Marek were at the barn. Shimerda sat crouching by the stove, Antonia was washing dishes. When she saw me, she ran out of her dark corner and threw her arms around me.
Dr Salinger's approach shadowed over Maria, who was more than ready to shake him for answers. She'd waited over two hours of silence and growing dread for anything on Dad. But when the man hesitated and the lines on his face deepened, she froze in her tracks. Yet, she heard herself ask, "Is he The "I'm sorry" that followed choked her breath from her lungs, and suddenly he towered over her.
She clutched at the gold cross hanging from the chain. It pressed white-hot against her skin. Each gasp tore down her throat and her mind raced even as she lost herself in the storm. But Dad was just fine last night! Didn't Salinger see it? Didn't he see Dad eager to get up and go? She watched the game with him, laughed when he spilled Ginger-ale at a touchdown of his favorite team. He couldn't be gone.
Not when he promised her he'd fight, dammit! She pounded the cold floor. Hissed a breath through clenched teeth. But the strength left her, even as she attempted to stand. Her throat held back something between a sob and a shout. She had to see him. Through the blur of motion and color she followed the doctor. She would see him. And say goodbye. Use enough detail to convey what's going on without going too detailed.
Hope this helps. Find a non-cliche way of showing that she was crying. I always think back to Updike's comment about Salinger:. He quoted Seymour quoting R. Blyth's definition of sentimentality: 'We are being sentimental when we give to a thing more tenderness than God gives to it.
Andy vaulted onto his bed, the pillow hugging his face accepting his torment. Once the first tear got away, the rest followed it, creating a huge pool on his pillow. His lungs rummaged for oxygen, and his sobbing had the same force of someone drowning. The flesh under his ribcage throbbed, his cheeks burned, and his mind created memories and scenarios that made the tears continue.
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This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1,
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