Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Grave. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Grave Quotes And Sayings by 90 Authors including Tony Curl,Alexander Pope,Percy Bysshe Shelley,Rajib Mukherjee,Lang Leav for you to enjoy and share.
What within you lies in that symbolic unmarked grave? How can you create the memorial to you and your best life and effort? Make tomorrow today and make today count.
The grave unites; where e'en the great find rest, And blended lie th' oppressor and th' oppressed!
Peace is in the grave.
Some sinister secret lat buried in the heart of the graveyard !
In cemeteries of memories, our love will lie in caskets.
The grave is Heaven's golden gate,
And rich and poor around it wait;
O Shepherdess of England's fold,
Behold this gate of pearl and gold!
Of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors and talk of wills; And yet not so - for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
You have come into a hard world. I know of only one easy place in it, and that is the grave.
We never bury the dead, son. Not really. We take them with us. It's the price of living.
Let us clear a little space, And make Love a burial-place. He is dead, dear, as you see, And he wearies you and me.
Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.
Fear is the worst kind of grave, because it buries one alive.
What is your name?"
So I can mark your grave...
Death's the discarder.
There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.
Don't bury me but instead use me as fertilizer to grow a tree..I can prove to you im useful both alive and dead
If one drops dead in the street, friends and loved ones are shocked, stricken, but a long lingering death loses all nobility and drama, while relatives and friends await the inevitable end in a succession of weary anti-climaxes.
Dead is the cradle of everything.
And now let us love and take that which is given us, and be happy; for in the grave there is no love and no warmth, nor any touching of the lips. Nothing perchance, or perchance but bitter memories of what might have been.
The graves of those we have loved and lost distress and console as.
Now you're dead, and I'm buried.
A grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul.
I've dug this grave myself. I guess I have no choice but to lie down in it.
The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
Deadly emotions, buried alive, never die.
Dead. It sounds final but it's a word missing an ing.
I am now about to enter on my normal condition. For people are almost always in their graves. When we survey the long race of men, it is strange and still more strange to find that they are mainly dead men, who have scarcely ever been otherwise.
While friends and lovers mourn your silly grave, I have other uses for you, darling. I love the dead.
Know the grave doth gape for thee thrice wider than for other men.
the wildflowers said what burial.
I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave - thank God for the quiet grave
Graves are for the living, not the dead. It gives us something to concentrate on instead of the fact that our loved one is rotting under the ground.
One thing I'd learned from all the burying I'd attended was that sometimes it's hard to pay attention. Burying someone you know will set your mind down some distant trail, as the one you're really on is too painful to view.
at the burial of Ernest, Sarah's brother
How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.
My heart is its own grave!
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
I repose in this quiet and secluded spot not from any natural preference for solitude, but finding other cemeteries limited as to race by charter rules, I have chosen this that I might illustrate in my death the principles which I advocated through a long life: EQUALITY OF MAN BEFORE HIS CREATOR.
Never the grave gives back what it has won!
Heaven lent you a soul, Earth will lend a grave.
Death possesses a good deal, of real estate, namely, the graveyard in every town.
The first grave. Now we're getting someplace. Houses and children and graves, that's home, Tom. Those are the things that hold a man down.
An everlasting funeral marches round your heart.
Mortification. I'm draped in it. Painted in it. Buried in it.
The graveyard is every man final resting place.
The dead have a presence.
her mother's grave. There she lamented her hard
I notice young girls picking flowers off her gravestone; their clean hearts are soapstone. Their small sorrows are for children alone. And all of their stories will never be told.
How poor this world would be without its graves, without the memories of its mighty dead. Only the voiceless speak forever.
Grass grows at last above all graves.
I'm fucking the grave, I thought, I'm bringing the dead back to life ...
He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
They say in the grave there is peace, and peace and the grave are one and the same.
To waste! You are unknown and unwanted, save by me. This, because you are fairly adept at the various embalming arts and you occasionally compose a clever epitaph.
Someone is digging your grave right now.
Better to rest in peace than rot in pieces
A tomb is a vault, a vault is a home," Mr. Sadlot said casually sniffing the flower in his lapel. "That's where the deceased chose to reside and that is where he will be placed." Kekaju and the Hidden Swamp
The country blooms - a garden, and a grave.
Our enemies leave our bodies for the crows and the wolves. Our friends bury us in secret graves.
But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
Lay these Bones in an unworthy Urn,
Tombless, with no Remembrance over them.
The dead to the grave, the living to the loaf.
We are buried when we're born. The world is a place of graves occupied and graves potential. Life is what happens while we wait for our appointment with the mortician.
Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few,
And soon the grassy coverlet of God
Spreads equal green above their ashes pale.
Which soul shall escape the power of the grave?.
One forgets the dead quite quickly; one doesn't wonder about the dead-what is he doing now, who is he with?
Every heart has its graveyard.
Death bears with it a stain that seeps into the hollow and fills the mind.
Let the dead bury the dead, your time will come.
Mourn for the living, the dead have got their camphor gardens.
There is something beyond the grave; death does not end all, and the pale ghost escapes from the vanquished pyre.
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth,
Let's choose executors and talk of wills
Everyone, deep down within, carries a small cemetery of those he has loved.
In the busy city, dying might be resented as a breach of good taste, and the body hastily dispatched to the undertaker and the crematorium; but in Lost Haven, where a man's mates had to turn out and dig his grave, it was an occasion shared by the whole community.
The loss inside him kept piling - vertebrae shattered, finger bones lost, gravestone past and guillotine future, ghost woman and her ghost curls,
I am a cemetery by the moon unblessed.
Even in the silence of my mind I cannot think the word. I cannot acknowledge this most obvious and terrible of truths.
[T]he cradle is shallower than the grave.
One is not allowed a grief for a life never lived. Yet one has buried the fruit of love, and a great deal of hope and many dreams.
Death and burial were a public spectacle. Shakespeare may have seen for himself the gravediggers at St Ann's, Soho, playing skittles with skulls and bones.
The cemetery is full of indispensable people.
Grave was the man in years, in looks, in word, his locks were grey, yet was his courage green.
The grave is a common treasury, to which we must all be taken.
The cemetery is the home of those who are not here, come in.
There is nothing more dignified than a corpse.
Tombs decked by the arts can scarcely represent death as a formidable enemy; we do not, indeed, like the ancients, carve sports and dances in the sarcophagus, but thought is diverted from the bier by works that tell of immortality, even from the altar of death.
I realized that whilst crying over the loss, the living did not seem adequate because they were not my loved one. The room full of strangers hurt me profusely. Even as I saw thousands of young people; I felt incomplete and more saddened because the one I wanted to see was buried.
In the anteroom of death.
Might be dead and buried. V. well, there is more to E.'s & my pax
He dreamed of funeral love, but dreams crumble and the tomb abides
Gavin saw a grave purely as a marker for the place where a corpse was decomposing; a nasty thought, yet people took it into their heads to visit and bring flowers, as though it might yet recover.
Graves they say are warm'd by glory;
Foolish words and empty story.
Who has not raised a tombstone, here and there, over buried hopes and dead joys, on the road of life? Like the scars of the heart, they are not to be obliterated.
You can dig a hole in my heart and bury all your sadness. I'll be your grave.
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
My lonely eyes looked over the graves. I wept.
On the grave among the pine trees, a boy knelt weeping, his chest, racked by sobs, heaving in the darkness, oppressed by an immense grief gentler than the moon and more unfathomable than the night.
Friends make pretence of following to the grave but before one is in it, their minds are turned and making the best of their way back to life and living people and things they understand.
The mystery at the center of 'Burial Rites' is not who killed whom on the night of March 13, 1828. It is the mystery each of us encounters: Can we every truly know another? Can we ever truly know ourselves?
Memory, in widow's weeds, with naked feet stands on a tombstone.
ALL THE WORKS OF MEN ARE SUMMED UP IN THEIR GRAVES