Quotes About Dead

Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to sleep, Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!" How should they know the vigils that I keep, The tears I shed?

I turned my copy over to reread the back cover: always a creepy experience once you had finished a book, like getting a message from a dead person. "Nadja, originally published in France in 1928, is the first and perhaps best Surrealist romance ever written," it said.

And when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son? When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head. (And I have my dead.)

The wind is full of memories; It whispers low and clear The sacred echoes of the past, And brings the dead more near.

Many a check at the memory pales; The jubilant music faints and fails, Dying in low and mournful wails For those whose graves are green; The crowd grows still with a conscious dread, So still that you almost hear the tread, The ghostly tread of the gallant dead Who walk in the ranks unseen.

Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas, Can ye listen in your silence? Can your mystic voices tell us Where ye hide? In floating islands, With a wind that evermore Keeps you out of sight of shore? Pan, Pan is dead.

The swags and garlands of dead, cut flowers were another alien grace note, a funeral touch.

The necromancer framed the dead woman's eyes with soft fingertips, and leaned so close that Tristen felt as if he had interrupted a seduction.

Life went on; there were apples in the markets now, and squash, and cabbages and potatoes to set by for winter. It was Garrett's job to be concerned with justice and the dead.

He might be a dead man. He might sometimes find himself grown very tired. But he could not find it in himself to regret the circumstances of his death, no matter how unusual.

I am, after all a necromancer. And they shall know you by your trail of dead, Perceval Conn.

Richard is made in the image of a physicist dead since the previous century.

Mrs. Heccomb tapped on the glass, and the taxi, which already intended stopping, stopped dead with a satirical jerk.

I love you," she sobbed, rubbing her hands over his face, his hair, his chest, making sure he was solid and real. "I love you, and I thought you were dead. I couldn't bear it. I thought I would die too." "I'd walk through fire for you," he rasped, his voice hoarse and broken. "I have walked through fire for you.

I have ceased to care about anything. I have no personal ambition, or even the desire that people call me nice, or pretty, or witty. Nor do I have any use for sensation, nor do I care. Cessation. It is a technical circle, encircling, cycle, of giving the body to be burned, but having no charity. ... What can I do? For without love I am truly dead.

Reunión de pastores, decía el antiguo refrán español, oveja muerta.

I just meant that dreams are sort of an opportunity. You can confront danger without actually being in jeopardy." "Oh," I said. Opportunity was a good thing, a chance, a promise--the gift of drowning every night and never being dead.

By all the rules of modern fiction there should have been gunsmoke mingling its acrid blue with the brown haze of corral dust. Dead men should have fallen and been trampled... Nothing of this sort happened.

Watch 'Fear the Walking Dead,' because we'd love your support, but I think 'The 100' is such a great show; it was a great show before I got there. It's only getting better, and I'm so lucky I got to be a part of it.

The great thing about 'The Exorcist' is it's dead serious horror. No comedy, no self-reference, it's a documentary style.

I used to think like that at school, Sabriel answered. Dreaming about the Old Kingdom. Proper Charter Magic. Dead to bind. Princes to be -- Rescued?

In the expectant quiet, there were only the usual sounds of the night. Wind in the big trees out past the school wall, starting to rise as the sky darkened, Crickets beginning to chirp. Then Sabriel heard it--the massed grinding of Dead joints, no longer joined by gristle; the padding of Dead feet, bones like hobnails clicking through necrotic flesh.

Oh, tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead! Christine replied. Your soul is a beautiful thing, child, replied the grave man's voice, and I thank you. No emperor ever received so fair a gift. The angels wept tonight.

No había nada más frío, nada mas muerto que su corazón.