Quotes About Mortality

There is nothing which at once affects a man so much and so little as his own death.

I don't think anyone should write their autobiography until after they're dead

Babies haven't any hair;Old men's heads are just as bare;Between the cradle and the graveLies a haircut and a shave.

It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives.

Catch, then, oh catch the transient hour; Improve each moment as it flies! Life's a short summer, man a flower; He dies — alas! how soon he dies!

"Enlarge my life with multitude of days!"In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays:Hides from himself his state, and shuns to knowThat life protracted is protracted woe.

Disease generally begins that equality which death completes.

Nothing so concentrates the mind as the sight of the gallows.

None but the dead have free speech.

gave unto the gods what was the gods"' and recognized and accepted as inevitable mortal

But Lord! how everybody's looks, and discourse in the street, is of death, and nothing else; and few people going up and down, that the town is like a place distressed and forsaken.

neighbour of ours, Mr. Hollworthy, a very able man, is also dead by a fall in the country from his horse, his foot hanging in the stirrup, and his brains beat out.

I was born," the Mouse said. "I must die. I am suffering. Help me. There, I just wrote your book for you.

I am limited, finite, and fixed. I am in terror of the infinity before me, having come through the one behind bringing no knowledge I can take on. I commend myself up to what is greater than I, and try to be good.

Sometimes, drunk, I ruminate on the state of my liver, and think of all the cirrhotics I have watched turn yellow and die. They either bleed out, raving, coughing up and drowning in blood from ruptured esophageal veins, or, in coma, they slip away, slip blissfully away down the yellow-brick ammonia-scented road to oblivion.

Swans sing before they die -- t'were no bad thing did certain persons die before they sing.

The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I.

If being horrible was a mortal condition, then this whole world would be a grave.

Each moment of life is a step toward death.

I gave my life to learning how to live. Now that I have organized it all... It is just about over.

From half-dark to half-dark, I read autumn poems in spring. Buson writes about stepping on his dead wife's comb in their dark bedroom. In fact, she outlived him by thirty-one years. The chill from that comb, and the snap of eros and solitude and imagining, all in flower.

Nothing remains the same. Everything moves on in the end. Even us. Death is nothing more than another change.

I've one foot in the grave and the other on a bar of soap.

Pada Suatu Hari Nanti pada suatu hari nanti jasadku tak akan ada lagi tapi dalam bait-bait sajak ini kau takkan kurelakan sendiri pada suatu hari nanti suaraku tak terdengar lagi tapi di antara larik-larik sajak ini kau akan tetap kusiasati pada suatu hari nanti impianku pun tak dikenal lagi namun di sela-sela huruf sajak ini kau takkan letih-letihnya kucari