Death Quotes — page 76

Speech is human, silence is divine, yet also brutish and dead: therefore we must learn both arts.

Let us bring the question to the test of experience and fact; and ask ourselves, considering our nature in its entire extent, what light we derive from a sustained and comprehensive view of its component parts, which may enable us to …

So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapours both away, Turn thou ghost that way, and let me turn this, And let our selves benight our happiest day. We asked none leave to love; nor will we owe Any, so …

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me — That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. Death …

The dying chief sprang to his knee, And the staunch'd wounds well'd fearfully; But his gash'd arm, what is it now? Livid his lip, and black his brow, While over him the slayer stood, As if he almost scorn'd the blood

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

Love – thou art Veiled – A few – behold thee – Smile – and alter – and prattle – and die – Bliss – were an Oddity – without thee – Nicknamed by God – Eternity –

For a hundred years hell has been gradually growing cool, the flames have been slowly dying out, the brimstone is nearly exhausted, the fires have been burning lower and lower, and the climate gradually changing. To such an extent has the …

And what its worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.

Time found our tired love sleeping, And kissed away his breath; But what should we do weeping, Though light love sleep to death? We have drained his lips at leisure, Till there's not left to drain

"If I should die," said I to myself, "I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself …

Men that look no further than their outsides, think health an appurtenance unto life, and quarrel with their constitutions for being sick; but I that have examined the parts of man, and know upon what tender filaments that fabric hangs, do …

Such were the notes thy once lov'd poet sung, Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.

I live, But live to die: and, living, see no thing To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, A loathsome and yet all invincible Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I Despise myself, yet cannot overcome—

Memory and forgetfulness are as life and death to one another. To live is to remember and to remember is to live. To die is to forget and to forget is to die.

Nations with nations mix'd confus'dly die, And lost in one promiscuous carnage lie.

Come! let the burial rite be read — the funeral song be sung! — An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young — A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

So long as the system of competition in the production and exchange of the means of life goes on, the degradation of the arts will go on; and if that system is to last for ever, then art is doomed, and will surely die; that is to say, …

I saw how all the trembling ages past, Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath, Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her last And knows herself in death.

Happy who in his verse can gently steer From grave to light, from pleasant to severe.

Ah! Postumus! Devotion fails The lapse of gliding years to stay, With wrinkled age it nought avails Nor conjures conquering Death away.

Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them.

It is only by softening and disguising dead flesh by culinary preparation, that it is rendered susceptible of mastication or digestion; and that the sight of its bloody juices and raw horror does not excite intolerable loathing and disgust.

When my grave is broke up again Some second guest to entertain, (For graves have learnt that woman-head To be to more than one a bed) And he that digs it, spies A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,