Quotes About Urns

Man does not stand in awe of man, nor is his genius admonished to stay at home, to put itself in communication with the internal ocean, but it goes abroad to beg a cup of water of the urns of other men.

As a king, I have specified 2 urns as my backdrop, I have drank a cold Islamic green from my goblet, I have surveyed the Moorish lanterns of Iberia, so that when I come to a stance, when I come to a wisely chosen acre of granite, I am on grounds of a new undistinguished bodily grain, a prophet increased by fore-shortened spells, by Persian miniature gladioli, roosting upon the blood of erupting lateral wheat.

The earth is rocking, the skies are riven-- Jove in a passion, in god-like fashion, Is breaking the crystal urns of heaven.

I have no urns, no dusty monuments; No broken images of ancestors, Wanting an ear, or nose; no forged tales Of long descents, to boast false honors from.

Not me," Mary Alice said. "I'm being cremated and letting Akiko put my ashes in a nice urn. Maybe something from Pottery Barn. I can sit on the mantel and she can decorate me for holidays.

Vulcan, the god who had forged his armour, had fired his body to ashes; all that remained of Achilles the great was a small amount of material, barely sufficient to fill an urn. But his fame lives on to fill the expanse of the whole wide world. His glory measures up to the man; it matches his noble self, untouched by shadowy Hades.

Lay these Bones in an unworthy Urn, Tombless, with no Remembrance over them.

Hobie]"Theo." His hug was strong and parental, and so fierce that it made me cry even harder. Then his hand was on my shoulder, heavy anchoring hand that was security and authority itself; he was leading me in, into the workshop, dim gilt and rich wood smells I'd dreamed of, up the stairs into the long-lost parlor, with its velvets and urns and bronzes.

In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk, their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun

In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood, like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun.

My gramps is a lot like you. No sense of adventure. All he does is sit in his urn...

Sand from the Urns Green as mould is the house of oblivion. Before each of the blowing gates your beheaded minstrel turns blue. For you he beats his drum made of moss and of harsh pubic hair; With a festering toe in the sand he traces your eyebrow. Longer he draws it than ever it was, and the red of your lip. You fill up the urns here and nourish your heart.