Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Hearse. 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 Hearse Quotes And Sayings by 93 Authors including Steven Wright,John Green,Alan Moore,The Tragically Hip,Jayne Ann Krentz for you to enjoy and share.
I was hitchhiking the other day and a hearse stopped. I said, 'No thanks, I'm not going that far.
Ashes to ashes. Garage sale to garage sale, I said.
Outside an ambulance begins to scream as if overwhelmed by the suffering it must forever carry in its belly.
all you hear are the rusty breezes/
pushing around the weathervane jesus
boathouse. "Good night, Harley." "Don't give
Quiet through the grave go I; or else beneath the graves I lie
Thieves and prostitutes. Our mothers were in that car, along with a teacher, a librarian, elderly people, and a newborn baby - thieves and prostitutes.
Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve -
Car horns, shrill and prolonged, blared one after another. Flashing sirens heralded endless emergencies, and a fleet of buses rumbled past, their doors opening and closing with a powerful hiss, throughout the night. The noise was constantly distracting, at times suffocating.
The dusk runs down the lane driven like hail;
Far off a precise whistle is escheat
To the dark; and then the towering weak and pale ...
shopping trolleys
Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath.
The rain increases and umbrellas sprout like mushrooms amongst the graves.
the siren song/called silence
For the dead travel fast.
Like I always say, if you sit long enough by the crack of the door, you'll see your enemy go by in a hearse.
Called by the sirens and followed by an albatross.
The dead are orphans. No company but the silence like a moth's wing. An end to the agony of movement, to the long nightmare of going down the road. The body in peace, stillness, and order. The perfect darkness of death.
Days XIX. An Opinion XX. A Plea XXI. Echoing Footsteps
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat; The soldier's last tattoo; No more on Life's parade shall meet; The brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping-ground; Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards, with solemn round; The bivouac of the dead.
Echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.
An unmarked cop car carrying Mitch Lawson and Brock Lucas, both detectives with the DPD.
A shadow strolled past the car, indifferent to our curbside melodrama. This was my second time imperiled in a a parked vehicle in the space of three hours. I wondered what goonish spectacles I'd overlooked in my own career as a pavement walker.
into the quiet dark
Ghost grabbed the cab cage and kicked at the driver. Flesh tore. The crewman ripped away from the forklift and fell on the ice, steering wheel welded to his hands. Ghost stamped on the man's head until it burst.
Konecranes. Not one of ours.
I am alone on this road strewn with bones and bordered by ruins! Angels have their brothers, and demons have their infernal companions. Yet I have but the sound of my scythe when it harvests, my whistling arrows, my galloping horse. Always the sound of the same wave eating away at the world
There is the softest of sobbing as the coffin is lowered into the ground, but it is difficult to pinpoint who it is coming from, or if it is instead a collective sound of mingled sighs and wind and shifting feet.
Megaphone in which the wind passes singing.
The dead have come to take the living. The dead in winding-sheets, the regimented dead on horseback, the skeleton that plays the hurdy-gurdy.
You may bury my body down by the highway side. So my old evil spirit can catch a Greyhound bus and ride.
The silence rings - it is musical & thrills me. A night in which the silence was audible - I hear the unspeakable.
the tombstone sky cried down unending tears of rain all around
A discarded newspaper skimmed the sidewalk with a sound like the whisperings of a dead lover.
In that valley the train shrieks echo like souls on hooks.
the BTK Killer (which to me sounds more like something you order from a drive-thru window).
And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.
An earthmover was there, but instead of placing a casket into the ground, it was taking one out.
They're removing the dead. Taking him to the suburbs.
White flight. Black flight. Now dead flight.
Lost things. They claw through the membranes, attempting to summon our attention through an indecipherable mayday. Words tumble in helpless disorder. The dead speak. We have forgotten how to listen.
The dead walk among us.
Your house sounds like a train at midday,
the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing,
the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew ...
Softly the loud peal dies, In passing winds it drowns, But breathes, like perfect joys, Tender tones.
You call this a chariot?
walls, the upturned cars, the barking dogs, the
The cab drops Audie outside the Texas Children's Hospital. Money changes hands and the driver looks at the cash and suggests he deserves a tip. Audie says he should be nicer to his mother and gets a reply that no mother would approve of. pg.132
The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.
Whatever/ returns from oblivion/ returns to find a voice.
An everlasting funeral marches round your heart.
The front windows as are the watchmen of grief - I've been looking beyond expectation - Beyond myself - and I do not know as I love you - Which one of us is missing.
Road and find this mystery man, nothing can stop him - not hunger, not cops, not vampires, not even Herman E. Calloway himself. A crackerjack
The wood echoed to the hoarse ringing of other saws; somewhere, very far away, a nightingale was trying out its voice, and at longer intervals a blackbird whistled as if blowing dust out of a flute. Even the engine steam rose into the sky warbling like milk boiling up on a nursery alchohol stove.
Who died in the shop and how does it already smell like something has been decaying in the hot sun?"
"Oh, you know us. Brought home some roadkill for kicks."
"You didn't wait for me? You know how much I love roadkill. I mean, roadkill is the gift that keeps on giving.
Listen ... With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break free from the trees And fall.
The dead girl had her glimpse of earthly paradise: littered with designer goods, and celebrities to sneer at, and handsome drivers to joke with, and the yearning for it had brought her to this: seven mourners, and a minister who did not know her name.
There is nothing more harrowing than a deadly hush with the feel of a great noise around it
The abuse of cabmen in a block.
Heavy drops fall - drip, drip, drip - upon the broad flagged pavement, called from old time the Ghost's Walk, all night.
Third box car, midnight train, destination Bangor, Maine. Old worn out suit and shoes, I don't pay no union dues.
The Lark Ascending";
Cast up
the heart flops over
gasping 'Love'
a foolish fish which tries to draw
its breath from flesh of air
And no one there to hear its death
among the sad bushes
where the world rushes by
in a blather of asphalt and delay
Any requests on the kind of car?"
"Something with armor?" she said. "Oooh, and headrest DVD. Bonus for surround sound."
"Rocket launchers," Michael said.
"One hot yellow Hummer with optional mass destruction package, coming up.
The wheels hummed lullabies on the liquorice road ...
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red firetruck moving tense unheeded to gong clangs siren howls and wheels rumbling through the dark city.
The bony figure of Death rides the streets below, stopping his mount now and then to peer into windows. Horns of fire on his head and smoke leaking from his nostrils and, in his skeletal hand, a list of newly charged with addresses.
avenue into the shadows of a rotten alley. The
The road makes a noise all its own. It's a single note that stretches in all directions, low and nearly inaudible, only I could hear it loud and persistent ...
Dewan ex machina
The only other car in the lot was a silver pickup. Full-size. Well worn. Long. The windows gray with dried dirt. She had seen it many times. It belonged to John Peters (you know, the farmer?).
Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.
Drive your cart and plow over the bones of the dead.
From a mile away, the sound. The sirens.
Death leaves trails of mutes.
the distant cries of the seagulls
of the station wagon tearing up the
Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground
Death was driving an emerald-green Lexus.
Rang in my ears like Easter morning churchbells in Rome, rumble from an unmuffled Harley, fireworks shells exploding over a Fourth-of-July parade.
In the midnight of a soul's unsleeping, hear the waterfall of women weeping. Hear the distant noise of traffic stalling, hear the prostituted children calling.
Once, I took a taxi. I hate those limousines. They stink and their drivers have been driving dead people to the cemeteries.
Noise and activity are the refuges of the bereaved and the guilty.
An elevator. The doors of the elevator were gone, as were the cab and the lift mechanism, sold for reuse or for scrap.
On this road
where nobody else travels
autumn nightfall.
Everywhere and nowhere as the March wind begin to rise and moan like a dead Berserker winding his horn, it drifted on the wind, lonely and savage.
I can feel them, can hear the rush of hundreds of feet, can hear old laughter running underneath the birdsong: a place built of memory and echo.
Their voices reach out into the empty yard, plunge deep into the hills, go right through the heart.
A wandering corpse, a bundle of mindless functions,
A real hansom-cab took him from the station to Trinity College: the vehicle, it seemed, had been waiting there especially for him, desperately holding out against extinction till that moment, and then gladly dying out to join side whiskers and the Large Copper.
The dying go so swiftly at the end. Always the speed of their leaving catches me unawares; so much left to say, to promise, to pray for.
There is a corpse somewhere on the road to town. Mr Fox does not wish it there. Remove it!' The
...a herd of motorcycles.
Tires roared. The car lurched forward ... crunching ... a bright light ... yellow eyes ... then blackness.
Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.
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?
Pass not beneath, O Caravan, or pass not singing. Have you heard
That silence where the birds are dead yet something pipeth like a bird?
Prepare for a radio, for nothing is silent like the grave
Summer - summer - summer! The soundless footsteps on the grass!
Most horrid sound in the world, that of the once-was: alive in the past, perishing in the present, a corpse made of dust in the future.
Shall we mourn here deedless forever a shadow-folk mist-haunting dropping vain tears in the thankless sea
A Voice from I Don't Know WhereVoice-- Mary Oliver
Imagine how titanic an echo chamber this great city would seem without the noise of eve none of mine. A huge bronze bell deprived of one hidden small iron clapper, its sole reason for being, its single means of song.
Hopeful dreams - even where crack kings' and dope fiends feast. Dust from the ash and rubble; they shine like bright stars once the mic is gripped and the bars are spit.