No words of my own, just tears

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
  Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
    Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
      Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
        Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.
          Then have I reason to be fond of grief.

- William Shakespeare,
  The Life and Death of King John
  (Constance at III, iv)