The sorrow-ridden widow clutched the old photograph as she watched the funeral procession disappear down the lane.

At dusk, the old cemetery was lined by trees of sorrow that whispered with the wind.

She pressed a fallen blossom from the tree of sorrow into the pages of her journal, hoping its scent would keep her memories alive.

Every year the parish held a candlelight procession in honor of Our Lady of Sorrows, remembering the grief she endured.

To drown one's sorrows, he drank alone every night.

She walked through the sorrowless garden at dawn, humming as if grief had never touched her.

She stood sorrowly beneath the old oak, listening to the wind as though it carried the names of the departed.

He sorroweth for the friends he hath lost.

She sorrowingly folded the old letters back into their box, knowing they held the last memories of him.

The sorrowy traveler paused at the crossroads, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of quiet lament.