Quotes About Death

In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli Bodies of holy men and women exude Miraculous oil, odour of violet. But under heavy loads of trampled clay Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood; Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet ("Oil and Blood")

We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead; And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died?

O hiding hair and dewy eyes, I am no more with life and death, My heart upon his warm heart lies, My breath is mixed into his breath.

Nor dread nor hope attend A dying animal; A man awaits his end Dreading and hoping all; Many times he died, Many times rose again. A great man in his pride Confronting murderous men Casts derision upon Supersession of breath; He knows death to the bone – Man has created death.

Why should we honour those that die upon the field of battle? A man may show as reckless a courage in entering into the abyss of himself.

A writer must die every day he lives, be reborn, as it is said in the Burial Service, an incorruptible self, that self opposite of all that he has named 'himself'.

King, whether you did right or wrong in this Let the King say, for all that I need say Is that there's nothing that cries out for death In the withholding of that ancient right

May it not even be that death shall unite us to all romance, and that some day we shall fight dragons among blue hills, or come to that whereof all romance is but "Foreshadowings mingled with the images Of man's misdeeds in greater days than these"

Drowned in a vat of whiskey... Oh Death, where is thy sting?

Cast a cold eye on life, on death Horseman pass by

The glacier knocks in the cupboard, The desert sighs in the bed, And the crack in the teacup opens A lane to the land of the dead.

A dead man who never caused others to die seldom rates a statue.

The crack in the tea-cup opens A lane to the land of the dead.

Far from his illness The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays; By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

We would rather die in dread/ Than climb the cross of the moment/ And let our illusions die.

He still loves life But O O O O how he wishes The good Lord would take him.

Will you wheel death anywhere In his invalid chair, With no affectionate instant But his his attendant? For to be held for friend By an underdeveloped mind To be joke for children is Death's happiness: Whose anecdotes betray His favourite colour as blue Colour of distant bells And boys' overalls.

When I feel ill, cinema pictures of the circumstances of my death flit across my mind's eye. I cannot prevent them. I consider the nature of the disease and all I said before I died- something heroic, of course!

Suppose the hellfire of the orthodox really existed! We have no assurance that it does not! It seems incredible, but many incredible things are true. We do not know that God is not as cruel as a Spanish inquisitor. Suppose, then, He is! If, after Death, we wicked ones were shovelled into a furnace of fire- we should have to burn. There would be no redress. It would simply be the Divine Order of things. It is outrageous that we should be so helpless and so dependent on any one- even God.

La paciencia y la desgracia, el valor y la muerte, la resignación y lo inevitable tienden a aparecer juntos. Por lo general, la indiferencia ante la vida surge en el momento en que es imposible conservarla»… ¡Qué cínico parece!

Is life a boon? If so, it must befall That Death, whene'er he call, Must call too soon. Though fourscore years he give, Yet one would pray to live Another moon! What kind of plaint have I, Who perish in July? I might have had to die, Perchance, in June! Is life a thorn? Then count it not a whit! Man is well done with it; Soon as he's born He should all means essay To put the plague away; And I, war-worn, Poor captured fugitive, My life most gladly give - I might have had to live, Another morn!

For the Anniversay of My Death" Every year without knowing it I have passed the day When the last fires will wave to me And the silence will set out Tireless traveler Like the beam of a lightless star Then I will no longer Find myself in life as in a strange garment Surprised at the earth And the love of one woman And the shamelessness of men As today writing after three days of rain Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease And bowing not knowing to what

Looking East at Night" Death White hand The moths fly at in the darkness I took you for the moon rising Whose light then do you reflect As though it came out of the roots of things This harvest pallor in which I have no shadow but myself

O nobly-born, listen on distractedly. On the Second Day [of death] the pure form of water will shine as a white light.