Quotes About Graves

They say that shadows of deceased ghosts Will haunt the houses and the graves about Of such whose life's lamp went untimely out, Delighting still in their forsaken hosts.

How many funerals had he attended, how many open graves had he seen, watched the coffins eased down, or sometimes just a frayed mat in which the corpse was bundled, the feet sticking out, the soles white and sometimes still specked with dirt if he was a farmer and could not afford slippers, least of all shoes. -Istak

Lightning rods guarding some graves denoted dead who rested uneasily; stumps of burned-out candles stood at the heads of infant graves. It was a happy cemetery.

A few graves in the cemetery were marked with crumbling tombstones; newer ones were outlined with brightly colored glass and broken Coca-Cola bottles

Still, when you get to a certain age, and have created your own lifestyle and social standing, and only then start having grave doubts about your value as a human being

Fact is not truth, but a poet who wilfully defies fact cannot achieve truth.

Man, he said, I'm not afraid of graveyards. The dead are just, you know, people who wanted the same things you and I want. What do we want? I asked blurrily. Aw, man, you know, he said. We just want, well, the same things these people wanted. What was that? He shrugged. To live, I guess, he said.

For words of rapture groping, they"Never such love," swore "ever before was!"

The graves are, he suggests, only stone bookmarks left in pages of earth.

In the islands of the Aegean Sea, every island is full of graves.

Reality is here and now, everywhere, gleaming through every reflection that meets the eye.... Everybody is a neurotic, down to the last man and woman. The healer, or the analyst, if you like, is only a super-neurotic.... To be cured we must rise from our graves and throw off the cerements of the dead. Nobody can do it for another--it is a private affair which is best done collectively.

He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.

These are the woes of Slaves; They glare from the abyss; They cry, from unknown graves, We are the Witnesses!

Yes, Death brings us again to our friends. They are waiting for us, and we shall not long delay. They have gone before us, and are like the angels in heaven. They stand near the borders of the grave to welcome us, with the countenance of affection, which they wore on earth; yet more lovely, more radiant, more spiritual! O, he spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels!

Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.

Just as chillingly as Manuel took police to the spot where he had buried 17-year-old Isabella Cooke, it was reminiscent of this when Brady took police to Saddleworth Moor in Yorkshire, when he and Hindley were flown there by helicopter to walk on the graves of more victims.

Death was silence, loss, guilt. And anger. But life led that way, anyway. From birth, it was a slow, long march to the grave. Who said that? She couldn't remember now. But it was true. They were born dying. If they were very lucky, the dying was called aging. They reached toward if as if they were satellites in unstable orbits. And then when they got there, they were just dead. One moment in time separated the living from the ghosts.

É tudo mentira, não passam de mentiras! Meu Deus, que comoção vai ser o Dia do Juízo Final, quando eles vierem juntos, de mortalha, tentando arrastar as lápides para provar como foram bons.

I don't want to get killed either," Seth said agreeably. "I'd much rather live. Partly because I know you'd write 'I told you so' on my gravestone.

Sentimental irony is a dog that bays at the moon while pissing on graves.

Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves, Confucius said. Revenge unstitches civilisation.

Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves, Confucius said. Revenge unstitches a civilisation.

The burden of grief she had carried with her to the hillside earlier was gone, vanquished by the storm of his loving. She'd left it amid the fallen leaves of autumn, beneath the scattering of winter snow that covered three graves. She'd buried it beneath the frozen ground that held prisoner the body of the baby boy she'd borne and buried by herself.

There are disappointments which wring us, and there are those which inflict a wound whose mark we bear to our graves. Such are so keen that no future gratification of the same desire can ever obliterate them: they become registered as a permanent loss of happiness.