Quotes About Elegy

It is like visiting one's funeral, like visiting loss in its purest and most monumental form, this wild darkness, which is not only unknown but which one cannot enter as oneself.

Ravaged all, Bogo tabal Timore toron Totoo now gone...

His skin is the color of the leaves, the most beautiful ones I collect and blow into piles around my headstone.

The dying swan, when years her temples pierce, In music-strains breathes out her life and verse, And, chanting her own dirge, tides on her wat'ry hearse.

The breath of dying lilies haunted the twilight air.

Nice day for a funeral.

Laura, illustrious through her own virtues, and long famed through my verses, first appeared to my eyes in my youth, in the year of our Lord 1327, on the sixth day of April, in the church of St. Clare in Avignon, at matins; and in the same city, also on the sixth day of April, at the same first hour, but in the year 1348, the light of her life was withdrawn from the light of day, while I, as it chanced, was in Verona, unaware of my fate...

I did have a beautiful life. It ended early, that's all.

Tenderly, day that I have loved, I close your eyes, And smooth your quiet brow, and fold your thin dead hands. The grey veils of the half-light deepen; colour dies. I bear you, a light burden, to the shrouded sands, Where lies your waiting boat, by wreaths of the sea's making Mist-garlanded, with all grey weeds of the water crowned. There you'll be laid, past fear of sleep or hope of waking; And over the unmoving sea, without a sound.

There was no energy of a narrative in my family, not even the fervour of an elegy.

after Neruda a bronze song, something undone, salvia, a crushed butterfly. It is the blood on a light bulb, the seventh sadness, a fluctuation that closes oceans and eyes. The vermilion and solitary luminary shimmies and singes the feathers of the aviary. Moon, the clock's word, dear mother, ruin, rain. — Simone Muench, "Elegy for the Unsaid," Lampblack & Ash: Poems . (Sarabande Books; First Edition edition November 1, 2005)

I see it as my job to mourn him until the day I die.

I never drink... wine.

Regret is a short, evocative and achingly beautiful word: an elegy to lost possibilities even in its brief annunciation.

Cold inthe earthand the deepsnow piled abovethee, Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last byTime's all-serving wave?

Later, I'l learn that's the structure of an elegy: lament, consolation; bad news, followed by good news.)

Oh, if I had Orpheus' voice and poetrywith which to move the Dark Maid and her Lord,I'd call you back, dear love, from the world below.I'd go down there for you. Charon or the grimKing's dog could not prevent me thenfrom carrying you up into the fields of light.

Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis' by JD Vance made me entirely rethink U.S. republicanism, Donald Trump and the American white working class.

Every love story is a requiem.

Death darkens his eyes, and unplumes his wings, Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings: Live so, my Love, that when death shall come, Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home.

While friends and lovers mourn your silly grave, I have other uses for you, darling. I love the dead.

Remember that I wrote a pavane for a dead princess, and not a dead pavane for a princess!

I am dying: it's a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of the cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only beautiful thing about it.

I am dying: it's a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of a cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only beautiful thing about it.