Quotes About Death

Mercy did not exist in the primordial life. It was misunderstood for fear, and such misunderstandings made for death.

Sleep... Oh! how I loathe those little slices of death....

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

The grave itself is but a covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!

There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death.

Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath.

Es la mujer del hombre lo más bueno, y locura decir que lo más malo; su vida suele ser y su regalo, su muerte suele ser y su veneno. Cielo a los ojos, cándido y sereno, que muchas veces al infierno igualo; por bueno, al Mundo, su valor señalo; por malo, al hombre, su rigor condeno. Ella nos da su sangre, ella nos cría; no

Death, lonely death, Beneath the withered leaves.

Death, vicious death, Leave a green branch for love.

Little black horse. Where are you taking your dead rider?

In each thing there is an insinuation of death. Stillness, silence, serenity are all apprenticeships.

A dead man in Spain is more alive than a dead man anywhere in the world.

Let the skein never end of I love you you love me, ever burnt with decrepit sun and old moon; for whatever you don't give me and I don't ask of you will be for death, which does not leave even a shadow on trembling flesh.

Life is laughter amid a rosary of death.

All tragedies are finished by a death, all comedies by a marriage.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.

Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die.

Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy.

The blest are the dead, Who see not the sight Of their own desolation;   50 This work of a night — This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing

For Earth is but a tombstone

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou — who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

I live, But live to die; and, living, see no thing To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, A loathsome, and yet all invincible Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I Despise myself, yet cannot overcome–– And so I live. Would I had never lived!