Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Graveyards. 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 Graveyards Quotes And Sayings by 93 Authors including Les Brown,Lev Yilmaz,Harper Lee,Chuck Palahniuk,Sana for you to enjoy and share.
The wealthiest place on the planet is the graveyard, because in the graveyard we will find inventions that we were never ever exposed to, ideas, dreams that never became a reality, hopes and aspirations that were never acted upon.
I always thought that cemeteries gave me some sense of perspective
Let the dead bury the dead.
There are bodies buried everywhere you just have to know where to look.
For if u have positive attitude n creativeness u will always see a graveyard as a beautiful garden ...
Where, in what cemetery of the heavens, did the tender words of lovers rest when they loved no longer?
I wanted to be with the men I admired rather than the Scottish Arts Council crowd, so I spent a lot of time in graveyards. You get less trouble from the dead.
My children, who don't know they play on a graveyard.
Our enemies leave our bodies for the crows and the wolves. Our friends bury us in secret graves.
Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret.
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.
Who knows from the outside
where death grows?
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest.
Where shadows dim with shadows mate,
in caverns deep and dark.
Where old books dream of bygone days,
when they were wood and bark ...
How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.
Their parents buried empty coffins
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.
Only the most extraordinary men can choose the remote cliffs as their graveyards; others are always condemned to nearby city gardens!
Nothing but great antiquity can make graveyards interesting to me. I have no friends there.
You aren't allowed out of the graveyard -it's aren't, by the way, not amn't, not these days-because it's only in the graveyard that we can keep you safe. This is where you live and this is where those who love you can be found. Outside would not be safe for you. Not yet.
I sometimes imagine I would like my ashes to be scattered in a library. But then the librarians would just have to come in early the next morning to sweep them up again, before the people got there.
This is where I buried my first body.
Shall I check into convenient spots to bury a body?'
'You never know when a nice soft piece of ground may be useful.
Cemeteries can be creepy, creepy, 'specially at night.
A cemetery saddens us because it is the only place of the world in which we do not meet our dead again.
Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams
The summer time away.
The cemetery is full of indispensable people.
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.
What about that graveyard just down the road? Are all the Hilliards buried there?"
"Just the dead ones.
There is a certain frame of mind to which a cemetery is, if not an antidote, at least an alleviation. If you are in a fit of the blues, go nowhere else.
Every heart has its graveyard.
Everyone, deep down within, carries a small cemetery of those he has loved.
And let me ask you this: the dead,
where aren't they?Dead-- Franz Wright
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.
Century and after century, headstones and grave markers were crafted, marble shrines to lost life and to bodies that could neither see nor touch nor think nor feel, bodies that were respected and appreciated more after death than some ever could have hoped to be in life.
Look at any city through the right memories and it could become a graveyard as haunted as a former battlefield.
I am where dead children go.
The cemetery is the home of those who are not here, come in.
It was like the Secret Garden.
Of dead people.
There is nothing more orderly than a cemetery.
memory is a shallow grave
There is also, in any history, the buried, the wasted, and the lost.
Buried and burned. Never find them. Never. Buried and buried.
Imagine a place where the dead rest on shelves like books.
The cemetery is my sense of comfort, my sanctuary in a world of darkness, the one piece of light that i have in my life.
When the dead are done with the living, the living can go on to other things," Franny said. "What about the dead?" I asked. "Where do we go?
In the anteroom of death.
Dead is the cradle of everything.
Any place, then, can become a cemetery. All it takes is your body. It's not fair, I think, and I get this petulant wish for ugly flowers and mourners, my mother's old familiar grief. Somebody I love to tend my future grave. Probably this is the wrong thing to be wishing for.
In the depths of every heart there is a tomb and a dungeon, though the lights, the music, and the revelry above may cause us to forget their existence ...
Thousands of graveyards were parked in rows like cars.
There's a grave I need to visit.
Rain in the graveyard, and the world puddled into blurred reflections.
Where the bodies are buried in the desert is a certain world, Counselor. Where they are simply left in the street is another. That is a country heretofore unknown to me. But it must have always been there, must it not?
A grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul.
There are places. Abandoned places. Forgotten places. These are the places I like to be.
The grave is not a final destination of man but just a resting place for a while.
Over the bowls of memory where every hollow holds a hallow
The Houselands. Graveyard to the ones
who got locked out. A chill ran up London's spine. What the hell
were they doing?
All is forgotten in the stone halls of the dead. These are the rooms of ruin where the spiders spin and the great circuits fall quiet, one by one ...
All I desire for my own burial, is not to be buried alive; but how or where, I think, must be entirely indifferent to every rational creature.
The Cemetery of Forgotten Books is a metaphor, not just for books but for ideas, for language, for knowledge, for beauty, for all the things that make us human, for collecting memory.
Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few,
And soon the grassy coverlet of God
Spreads equal green above their ashes pale.
That cemetery had the attraction of a playground for me.
Inhabited by those who died in wickness,
To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
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.
The museums and parks are graveyards above the ground- congealed memories of the past that act as a pretext for reality.
But of these things I must not now speak. I will tell only of the lone tomb in the darkest of the hillside thickets.
While you are living, part of you has slipped away to the cemetery.
The land of familiarity belongs to the 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.
Edge of town
all graveyard
and the sound of waves
the Rey family grave at the
The grave's a fine and quiet place but none I think do finish their books from there.
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
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 ...
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.
preferably left buried in
This is the place where death rejoices to help those who live. It's written somewhere in every morgue I've ever been in. Nice way of looking at it, isn't it?
Never did tombs look so ghastly white. Never did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funeral gloom. Never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously. Never did bough creak so mysteriously, and never did the far-away howling of dogs send such a woeful presage through the night.
You have come into a hard world. I know of only one easy place in it, and that is the grave.
Body is a home, a prison and a grave.
All places are alike, and every earth is fit for burial.
Twigs and beetles and dead body. Water and blood. You'll never get back.
In old grimy streets, in isolated and decaying houses, sometimes far from the Vieux Carre, in little used and secluded cemeteries, there still sluggishly circulates the ebbing blood of the past, of a vigorous and vividly hued past.
Nowhere probably is there more true feeling, and nowhere worse taste, than in a churchyard.
The cemeteries are full of indispensable men.
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.
In the tight belly of the dead, Burrow with hungry head, And inlay maggots like a jewel.
Every graveyard gives this very simple message: The nonexistence shore exists!
All true stories begin and end in a cemetery - The Shadow of the Wind
The cemetery was vanity transmogrified into stone. Instead of growing more sensible in death, the inhabitants of the cemetery were sillier than they had been in life.
I'm sad that there no more mysterious places in the world.
No idea how you figured out the riddle, but you scooped the first prize. Congratulations. You've just won a vacation to a big, relaxing place called a grave.
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.
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.
We never bury the dead, son. Not really. We take them with us. It's the price of living.
There are places I cannot visit. Places of unbearable sadness, grief, mourning. They say places are made by people. I say places are defined by the memories they conjure - the lunge of a curse, a shared and shattered history, a loved one drowned and lost in the ocean of forgetting.
The tomb is not a blind alley: it is a thoroughfare. It closes on the twilight. It opens on the dawn.