Quotes
Quotes about Grave
Happy who in his verse can gently steer
From grave to light, from pleasant to severe.
In all thy humours, whether grave or mellow,
Thou 'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow,
Hast so much wit and mirth and spleen about thee,
There is no living with thee, nor without thee.
The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave,
The deep damp vault, the darkness and the worm.
Some write their wrongs in marble: he more just,
Stoop'd down serene and wrote them in the dust,--
Trod under foot, the sport of every wind,
Swept from the earth and blotted from his mind.
There, secret in the grave, he bade them lie,
And grieved they could not'scape the Almighty eye.
Form'd by thy converse, happily to steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe.
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O grave! where is thy victory?
O death! where is thy sting?
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourn'd!
Sinks my sad soul with sorrow to the grave.
The Grave, dread thing!
Men shiver when thou 'rt named: Nature, appall'd,
Shakes off her wonted firmness.
Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave.
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
In yonder grave a Druid lies.
With spots quadrangular of diamond form,
Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife,
And spades, the emblems of untimely graves.
There is in souls a sympathy with sounds;
And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased
With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave;
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those village bells
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet!
Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down,
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrewn,
Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave;
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave!
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?
Oh when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?
Vicissitudes of fortune, which spares neither man nor the proudest of his works, which buries empires and cities in a common grave.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh
The difference to me!
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave.
But an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,
Shall lead thee to thy grave.
Night is the time to weep,
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep
The joys of other years.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Although no sculptured marble should rise to their memory, nor engraved stone bear record of their deeds, yet will their remembrance be as lasting as the land they honored.
Thou art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb.
