Quotes About Graves

I decided that it was like the difference between the beautiful old Godsend graves and the new ones open to receive coffins (which I never can bear to look at); that time takes the ugliness and horror out of death and turns it into beauty.

Nothing I do will make death disappear Or let your shudder or your knowledge go. See the world whole, and see it clearly then, A globe of dirt crusted with bones of men. If we walk, we walk on graves. - from Shudder

He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels. -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Miss Volker," I said about as politely as I knew how, "do you think you will outlast the rest of these original people?" "I have to," she said. "I made a promise to Eleanor Roosevelt to see them to their graves, and I can't drop dead on the job—so let's get going.

He wanted to tell them of the stars. Of the lovers in their hellish graves.

I labor grimly on these sentences, wondering all the while if prose is but the gravestone marking the forsaking of wildness

If he considered God at all, he thought of Him as an old and honored general, retired and gray, living among remembered battles and putting wreaths on the graves of his lieutenants several times a year.

The war was not on that map, and neither was the surrender... that makes me happy and sad— happy because I know the streams will keep streaming and the skies will keep clouding and clearing, even as people fight and tear and claw at each other... what we do makes me sad too because what difference do we make? Looking around me, at all the graves and leftover destruction— seems we just keep on messing up a darned good thing.

The graves grow deeper. The dead are more dead each night. Under the elms and the rain of leaves, The graves grow deeper. The dark folds of the wind Cover the ground. The night is cold. The leaves are swept against the stones. The dead are more dead each night. A starless dark embraces them. Their faces dim. We cannot remember them Clearly enough. We never will.

Graves leaned forward, eyeing me. "Hey, Dru. You were French-kissing awinged snake. Creeptastic.

Dreams dawn and fly: friends smile and die, Like spring flowers. Our vaunted life is one long funeral. Men dig graves, with bitter tears, For their dead hopes; and all, Mazed with doubts, and sick with fears, Count the hours.

Visit the graveyards sometimes and read the headstone epitaphs! There is much to learn from the dark face of the life!

I've discovered the secret of revenge. Outlive the f---ers! I'll dance on their graves.

With a rasping cough, the vampire shakes its head. "It was you who called us. All of you, with your war. The roar of your cannons shook us from our quiet graves...

The grass grows over the graves, time overgrows the pain. The wind blew away the traces of those who had departed; time blows away the bloody pain and the memory of those who did not live to see their dear ones again—and will not live, for brief is human life, and not for long is any of us granted to tread the grass.

The day of death is better than the day of birth, a live dog is better than a dead lion, and the grave is better than poverty.

Up sluggard, and waste not life; in the grave will be sleeping enough." There

Up sluggard, and waste not life; in the grave will be sleeping enough.

Poems do seem to want to announce, over and over, that life's warm zephyrs are blowing past and the gravestones are just beyond the next rise. Little groupings of gravestones, all leaning and cracked, with a rusty black Victorian fence around them. They're just over that rise. Poets never want to forget that. And actually we need to hear that sometimes.

Yet we allow our historical sympathy to override our aesthetic discrimination. We offer flowers of approbation when the artist is safely laid in his grave.

What is life, after all if not dancing on graves?

He brought the Asherah pole from the house of the LORD to the Kidron Valley outside Jerusalem, and there he burned it, ground it to powder, and threw its dust on the graves of the common people.

Their graves are their eternal homes—their dwellings for endless generations—even though their lands were their namesakes.

sitting among the graves, spending nights in secret places, eating the meat of pigs and polluted broth from their bowls.