Quotes
Quotes about Grave
'T is beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy. -Twelfth Night. Act i. Sc. 5.
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell-- Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,-- Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave.
Neutrality is at times a graver sin than belligerence.
No, 'tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings, queens. and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave This viperous slander enters.
Sleep is a death, O make me try, By sleeping, what it is to die: And as gently lay my head On my grave, as now my bed.
Every politician, clergyman, educator, or physician, in short, anyone dealing with human individuals, is bound to make grave mistakes if he ignores these two great truths of population zoology: (1) no two individuals are alike, and (2) both environment and genetic endowment make a contribution to nearly every trait.
I think, whatever mortals crave, With impotent endeavor, A wreath--a rank--a throne--a grave-- The world goes round forever; I think that life is not too long, And therefore I determine, That many people read a song, Who will not read a sermon.
Sinks my sad soul with sorrow to the grave.
John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, His soul goes marching on.
A story, in which native humour reigns, Is often useful, always entertains; A graver fact, enlisted on your side, May furnish illustration, well applied; But sedentary weavers of long tales Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
Histories make men wise; poets, witty; the mathematics, subtile; natural philosophy, deep; morals, grave; logic and rhetoric, able to contend.
O summer day beside the joyous sea! O summer day so wonderful and white, So full of gladness and so full of pain! Forever and forever shalt thou be To some the gravestone of a dead delight, To some the landmark of a new domain.
O God! methinks it were a happy life To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes, how they run-- How many makes the hour full complete, How many hours brings about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live; When this is known, then to divide the times-- So many hours must I tend my flock, So many hours must I take my rest, So many hours must I contemplate, So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young, So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean, So many months ere I shall shear the fleece. So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Passed over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this!
Grave is the Master's look; his forehead wears Thick rows of wrinkles, prints of worrying cares: Uneasy lies the heads of all that rule, His worst of all whose kingdom is a school. Supreme he sits; before the awful frown That binds his brows the boldest eye goes down; Not more submissive Israel heard and saw At Sinai's foot the Giver of the Law.
There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave. - Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron),
St. Leon raised his kindling eye, And lifts the sparkling cup on high; "I drink to one," he said, "Whose image never may depart, Deep graven on this grateful heart, Till memory be dead." . . . . St. Leon paused, as if he would Not breathe her name in careless mood Thus lightly to another; Then bent his noble head, as though To give the word the reverence due, And gently said, "My mother!"
Write on my gravestone: "Infidel, Traitor." --infidel to every church that compromises with wrong; traitor to every government that oppresses the people.
Write on my gravestone: "Infidel, Traitor."--infidel to every church that compromises with wrong; traitor to every government that oppresses the people.
Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.
And by a prudent flight and cunning save A life which valour could not, from the grave. A better buckler I can soon regain, But who can get another life again?
Two aged men, that had been foes for life, Met by a grave, and wept - and in those tears They washed away the memory of their strife; Then wept again the loss of all those years.
What we wish for others determines what we allow for ourselves. Unknown Stop the mindless wishing that things would be different. Rather than wasting time and emotional and spiritual energy in explaining why we don't have what we want, we can start to pursue other ways to get it. â¢Greg Anderson A man of the world must seem to be what he wishes to be thought. â¢Jean De La Bruyère Wishes expand in direct proportion to the resources available for their gratification. â¢Robert Dato A wish is a desire without an attempt. â¢Farmer Digest Oh, the secret life of man and womanâdreaming how much better we would be than we are if we were somebody else or even ourselves, and feeling that our estate has been unexploited to its fullest. â¢Zelda Fitzgerald Men try to run life according to their wishes; life runs itself according to necessity. â¢Jean Toomer Some people develop a wishbone where their backbone should be. â¢Anonymous Indeed, man wishes to be happy even when he so lives as to make happiness impossible. â¢St. Augustine When you love someone all your saved-up wishes start coming out. â¢Elizabeth Bowen Whoever, in middle age, attempts to realize the wishes and hopes of his early youth, invariably deceives himself. Each ten years of a man's life has its own fortunes, its own hopes, its own desires. â¢Goethe Destiny grants us our wishes, but in its own way, in order to give us something beyond our wishes.
Not she with trait'rous kiss her Saviour stung, Not she denied Him with unholy tongue; She, while apostles shrank, could danger brave, Last at His cross, and earliest at His grave.
How often in the summer-tide, His graver business set aside, His stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed As to the pipe of Pan, Stepped blithesomely with lover's pride Across the fields to Anne.
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
