Quotes
Quotes about Grave
And Tragedy should blush as much to stoop To the low mimic follies of a farce, As a grave matron would to dance with girls.
You can't put equipment on your gravestone. * Ian Stewart's father about the risks he was taking.
Oh Ronald McDonald when you smile each of your teeth gravestones stands for billions and billions of lives.
A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. But, as you will! we'll sit contentedly, and eat our pot of honey on the grave.
For all may have, If they dare to try, a glorious life, or grave.
So for thy spirit did devise Its Maker seemly garniture, Of its own essence parcel pure.-- From grave simplicities a dress, And reticent demureness, And love encinctured with reserve; Which the woven vesture would subserve. For outward robes in their ostents Should show the soul's habiliments. Therefore I say,--Thou'rt fair even so, But better Fair I use to know.
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand O'er some new-open'd grave; and, (strange to tell!) Evanishes at crowing of the cock.
So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away; I will go down to the chapel and pray.
A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.
There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us this.
Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the churchway paths to glide.
Nor did there want Cornice or frieze with bossy sculpture graven.
Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
The sin of Judah is written with a pen of iron, and with the point of a diamond: it is graven upon the table of their heart, and upon the horns of your altars; Whilst their children remember their altars and their groves by the green trees upon the high hills.
Then get thee gone and dig my grave thyself, And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear That thou are crowned, not that I am dead.
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
We lie and listen to the hissing waves, Wherein our boat seems sharpening its keel, Which on the sea's face all unthankful graves An arrowed scratch as with a tool of steel.
The trees of life randomly grow but the graves of Arlington are set in rows.
With spots quadrangular of diamond form, Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, And spades, the emblems of untimely graves.
Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows Like the wave; Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men. Love tends life a little grace, A few sad smiles; and then, Both are laid in one cold place, In the grave.
And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thoughts; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the waves In roarings round the coral reef.
God is present by Love alone. By Love alone He is great and glorious. By Love alone He liveth and feeleth in other persons. By Love alone He enjoyeth all the creatures, by Love alone He is pleasing to Himself, by Love alone He is rich and blessed. The Soul is shrivelled up and buried in a grave that does not love. But that which does love wisely and truly is the joy and end of all the world, the King of Heaven, and the Friend of God.
God has set in the midst of you, as the ever present witness and figure of heaven, His holy House of Prayer. There it stands, built for no earthly purpose, different in shape, and in all things belonging to it, from earthly habitations; speaking only of heaven, and heavenly uses, and heavenly gifts, and heavenly blessings; the gate of heaven when we are brought into it as little children to Christ; the gate of heaven, if so God grant us, when we are brought to it, and pass through it the last time on our way to our grave beside it. And here we meet our God.
Easter Feast of George, Martyr, Patron of England, c.304 Commemoration of Michael Ramsey, Archbishop of Canterbury, Teacher, 1988 I greet Thy sepulchre, salute Thy grave, That blest enclosure, where the angels gave The first glad tidings of Thy early light, And resurrection from the earth and night. I see that morning in Thy convert's tears, Fresh as the dew, which but this downing wears. I smell her spices; and her ointment yields As rich a scent as the now primrosed fields: The Day-star smiles, and light, with Thee deceased, Now shines in all the chambers of the East.
Thomas a Kempis speaks for all the ages when he represents Jesus as saying to him, "A wise lover regards not so much the gift of him who loves, as the love of him who gives. He esteems affection rather than valuables, and sets all gifts below the Beloved. A noble-minded lover rests not in the gift, but in Me above every gift." The sustaining power of the Beloved Presence has through the ages made the sickbed sweet and the graveside triumphant; transformed broken hearts and relations; brought glory to drudgery, poverty and old age; and turned the martyr's stake or noose into a place of coronation.
