Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Gravestones. 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 Gravestones Quotes And Sayings by 94 Authors including Horace,Adah Isaacs Menken,Winston Churchill,Todd Henry,Lord Byron for you to enjoy and share.
Marble statues, engraved with public inscriptions, by which the life and soul return after death to noble leaders.
There is a graveyard in my poor heart - dark, heaped-up graves, from which no flowers spring.
The cemetery is full of indispensable people.
The most valuable land in the world is the graveyard. In the graveyard are buried all of the unwritten novels, never-launched businesses, unreconciled relationships, and all of the other things that people thought, 'I'll get around to that tomorrow.' One day, however, their tomorrows ran out.
I have seen a thousand graves opened, and always perceived that whatever was gone, the teeth and hair remained of those who had died with them. Is not this odd? They go the very first things in youth and yet last the longest in the dust.
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
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?
Mourn for the living, the dead have got their camphor gardens.
Everyone, deep down within, carries a small cemetery of those he has loved.
shade of their ancestors' houses of bones; and their ancestors may return the favor of a visit: coffins sometimes float in the streets during bad floods.
Of all the priceless objects left behind, this is what we rescue. These artifacts. Memory cues. Useless souvenirs. Nothing you could auction. The scars left from happiness.
Death is a solemn thing, and never so much so as when we see it close at hand. The grave is a chilling, heart-sickening place, and it is vain to pretend it has no terrors.
I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
Tombstones don't talk back.
To us, the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground.
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.
The dead have a presence.
That once were urgent and necessary for an orderly world and now were buried away, gathering dust and of no use to anyone.
CEMETERY, n. An isolated suburban spot where mourners match lies, poets write at a target and stone-cutters spell for a wager.
The only thing written in stone is your epitaph.
The dead linger sometimes.
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.
Today's ashes are tomorrow's soil.
There's a grave I need to visit.
A gravesite tells the history of a life, usually in whispers
Veins of ivy scale stones,
find footholds but
the caretaker cuts
earth short, peels
creepers from Cotswold
rock and props the dead
head to head so they won't
topple like drunks
on their moss-soft shadows.
Come gaze about aged churchyard and behold
Those vanish'd hours of lead and hours of gold.
Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret.
The graveyards are full of people the world could not do without.
I visit English country churchyards where historical figures are buried.
preferably left buried in
The bones of the Dead will be seen to govern the fortunes of him who moves them.
Don't take anything for granite. That's what tombstones are made of.
Grass grows at last above all graves.
What will be left of all the fearing and wanting associated with your problematic life situation that every day takes up most of your attention? A dash, one or two inches long, between the date of birth and date of death on your gravestone.
One cannot conceive of grander burial than that which mighty mountains bend, crack and shatter to make. Or a nobler tomb than the great upper basin of Denali.
In my seaside town, there is a plethora of benches, each one bearing a little brass plate commemorating a deceased occupant. You sit with ghosts.
Not flowers - never flowers in Terrasen. Instead, they carried small stones to graves to mark their visits, to tell the dead that they still remembered.
We stood in the graveyard, among the tombstones, forty-some dead people and me. A couple of my fellow funeral-goers had even been in their own coffins, deep under several feet of French soil.
the remnants of wars
My family had a business where they worked with gravestones, and I remember growing up and playing in cemeteries like it was a normal playground.
Life goes by really fast, and it seems that there are times when you're burying a lot of friends and family. And then there are times that feel really precious and everybody is doing okay. This is one of those times.
The only thing that lives beyond the grave is the wake you have created by the way you have lived your life; the goals you have set; the distance away from the normal you dared to tread.
The archaeology of grief is not ordered. It is more like earth under a spade, turning up things you had forgotten. Surprising things come to light: not simply memories, but states of mind, emotions, older ways of seeing the world.
I believe that the truest parts of people can be buried, and for many different reasons.
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.
by the late second and first centuries BC, across southern Britain, certain members of society enjoy well-equipped inhumation and cremation burial, the males usually distinguished by swords, the females by mirrors.
There is nothing more orderly than a cemetery.
When I was younger, I loved graveyards. They weren't spooky so much as mysterious. Each tombstone another story to uncover. Another life to learn about.
Now that I'm older - I won't say how old - I hate graveyards. The only life - or rather death - I see in the tombstones is my own.
The rich pearl of life, Soon moulders in its blackened urn, the tomb.
What for do we nail down the dead?
How much of love lies buried in dusty graves!
Some sinister secret lat buried in the heart of the graveyard !
A small percentage of medieval bodies were buried such; historians thought they were the graves of suicides or witches, though really, historians were such Guesser McGuessers, him the biggest of them all.
How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.
The earth is expertly designed to take back what it has created. Bodies left for carrion in enclosed, regulated spaces could be the answer to the environmental problems of burial and cremation. There is no limit to where our engagement with death can take us.
Buried and burned. Never find them. Never. Buried and buried.
A stone is ingrained with geological and historical memories.
The grave itself is but a covered bridge,
Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!
The dead leave their shadows, an echo of the space within which once they lived. They haunt us, never fading or growing older as we do. The loss we grieve is not just their futures but our own.
The most buried treasures lie in the cemetery. There lies buried the dreams that never came true, the goals that were never reached, the inventions that were never created and the books that were never written.
Don't be a buried treasure.
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.
After someone's death, how strange to see the value drain away from his or her possessions; useful objects such as clothes, or dish towels, or personal papers become little more than trash.
For the greedy there will be no tomb
Statues with beating hearts.
In the stillness of headstones,
Darkness is my blanket.
And forever is my song.
In the arms if stone angels, I'm not afraid.
Because finally and completely,
I belong.
Cinders. Embers. Ashes.
I've always thought cemeteries were like cities. There are streets, avenues - you've seen them, I think, Michael. There are blocks, too, and house numbers, slums and ghettos, middle-class sections and small palaces.
We never bury the dead, son. Not really. We take them with us. It's the price of living.
If you take epitaphs seriously, we ought to bury the living and resurrect the dead.
memory is a shallow grave
On my tombstone they will carve, IT NEVER GOT FAST ENOUGH FOR ME.
On the page, these might look like the stones of a ruin, strewn by time and weather, but I was here.
With spots quadrangular of diamond form, ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, and spades, the emblems of untimely graves.
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,
Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.
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!
This is a grave. There is no honor here in broken tools and old bones, only in the deeds of our children.
Thoughts by a graveside are too dark and deep to be sustained for any length of time. Sooner or later the hurt mind turns to the sun for healing, and this is as it should be, for otherwise, what future could any of us hope for, but madness?
There is also, in any history, the buried, the wasted, and the lost.
Curious, how each one of us secretly carries his private cemetery around with him and watches it filling up with ever new graves. The last one to be our own ...
Death possesses a good deal, of real estate, namely, the graveyard in every town.
I have frequently thought that the dead should be buried with all their belongings. It seems weirdly perverse that their clothes should still be here when the people you love best in the world have gone.
I will gradually drop this subject of graveyards. I have been trying all I could to get down to the sentimental part of it, but I cannot accomplish it. I think there is no genuinely sentimental part to it. It is all grotesque, ghastly, horrible.
Reading the epitaphs, our only salvation lies in resurrecting the dead and burying the living.
I buried Little Ann by the side of Old Dan. I knew that was where she wanted to be. I also buried a part of my life along with my dog.
Archaeology digs the Bible's grave.
The tombstones smashed in Hebrew cemeteries and plundered for Polish sidewalks; today bored citizens, staring at their feet while waiting for a bus, can still read the inscriptions.
Never the grave gives back what it has won!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
The dead are celebrated. The dead are loved. They give something to the living. Once you put something into the ground, Doctor, you always know where to find it.
As I go into a cemetery I like to think of the time when the dead shall rise from their graves ... Thank God, our friends are not buried; they are only sown!
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.
This notice has been written, because I felt it a sacred duty to wipe the dust off their gravestones, and leave their dear names free from soil.
Build castles, don't dig graves.
Repentance clothes in grass and flowers the grave in which the past is laid.
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.
Over my pile of ashes
These are the kinds of things a guy thinks about when he visits his own grave.
We dig our graves with our teeth.
He liked churchyards. The graves themselves, were, of course, important, being the final resting places for the earthly remains of people-real people just like himself. They were valuable tributes from loving relatives, who'd cared about those people in life; the gravestones were historical records.