Quotes About Rest

You're not too good for the sleep mask-neck pillow combo! You're not too cool for it!

If you had told me at 45 years old that I would have to go on tour to get rest, I would've said, 'That's not how it works.' But nothing can be more gratifying. I'm a very hands-on dad.

If I didn't have a job, I might have stayed in bed until I rotted.

Never we sleep, a thug doesn't rest, Cause a wise man said: it was a cousin of death.

Each day, each noise I gather explodes, leaving me to death; to rest in the solace of silence & to be re-born.

Death rock me asleep.

Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.

I think we should look forward to death more than we do. Of course everybody hates to go to bed or miss anything, but dying is really the only chance we'll get to rest.

For me, sleeping is a waste of time. I'm afraid to sleep. It's a form of death.

My manuscripts sleep, while I cannot, for I am covered with poultices.

Sleep does make us all equal, it seems to me, like his big brother-Death.

Living is a sickness to which sleep provides relief every sixteen hours. It's a palliative. The remedy is death.

I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.

How wonderful is death! Death and his brother sleep.

Death is an eternal sleep.

Sleep, the type of death, is also, like that which it typifies, restricted to the earth. It flies from hell and is excluded from heaven.

How beautiful it is for a man to die Upon the walls of Zion! to be called Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel, To put his armour off, and rest in heaven!

Our nature consists in motion; complete rest is death.

Rest is for the dead.

We term sleep a death by which we may be literally said to die daily; in fine, so like death, I dare not trust it without my prayers.

Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death.

Death is the quiet haven of us all.

If the matter of death is reduced to sleep and rest, what can there be so bitter in it, that any one should pine in eternal grief for the decease of a friend?

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.