Best 83 quotes in «cemetery quotes» category

The graveyard is not the final resting place of our dear departed but an ephemeral repository of their remains. The real graveyard, however, is somewhere deep in our heart, where we can always visit them at any time of the day, talk about some unforgettable summers, or cry in solitude as if they were always there for us to stay. And should our twilight come, when we can no longer see the light of the day, some people dear to us will build a graveyard in their hearts. They will let us stay for a while or perhaps longer, as long as they continue to remember, but it does not matter anymore. What is comforting to know, no matter how tragic or tranquil our death may be, somewhere somehow someone will always build a sublime place for us to stay. (Danny Castillones Sillada, The Graveyard In Our Heart)

The graveyard was at the top of the hill. It looked over all of the town. The town was hills - hills that issued down in trickles and then creeks and then rivers of cobblestone into the town, to flood the town with rough and beautiful stone that had been polished into smooth flatness over the centuries. It was a pointed irony that the very best view of the town could be had from the cemetery hill, where high, thick walls surrounded a collection of tombstones like wedding cakes, frosted with white angels and iced with ribbons and scrolls, one against another, toppling, shining cold. It was like a cake confectioner's yard. Some tombs were big as beds. From here, on freezing evenings, you could look down at the candle-lit valley, hear dogs bark, sharp as tuning forks banged on a flat stone, see all the funeral processions coming up the hill in the dark, coffins balanced on shoulders. ("The Candy Skull")

The harbour of influence is richer in the cemeteries where people are buried with their music on their tongues unsung. Don't leave your potentials untouched!

The massive bronze gates were wide open now, too late. Inside, the cemetery had been turned into a grotesque place gleaming with high-powered searchlights, blue flashlight flares, winking pocket torches. Uniformed men were already swarming about. Red cigarette-embers showed oddly amidst the headstones here and there. ("The Street Of Jungle Death")

The moon fled eastward like a frightened dove, while the stars changed their places in the heavens, like a disbanding army. 'Where are we?' asked Gil Gil. 'In France,' responded the Angel of Death. 'We have now traversed a large portion of the two bellicose nations which waged so sanguinary a war with each other at the beginning of the present century. We have seen the theater of the War of Succession. Conquered and conquerors both lie sleeping at this instant. My apprentice, Sleep, rules over the heroes who did not perish then, in battle, or afterward of sickness or of old age. I do not understand why it is that below on earth all men are not friends? The identity of your misfortunes and your weaknesses, the need you have of each other, the shortness of your life, the spectacle of the grandeur of other worlds, and the comparison between them and your littleness, all this should combine to unite you in brotherhood, like the passengers of a vessel threatened with shipwreck. There, there is neither love, nor hate, nor ambition, no one is debtor or creditor, no one is great or little, no one is handsome or ugly, no one is happy or unfortunate. The same danger surrounds all and my presence makes all equal. Well, then, what is the earth, seen from this height, but a ship which is foundering, a city delivered up to an epidemic or a conflagration?' 'What are those ignes fatui which I can see shining in certain places on the terrestrial globe, ever since the moon veiled her light?' asked the young man. 'They are cemeteries. We are now above Paris. Side by side with every city, every town, every village of the living there is always a city, a town, or a village of the dead, as the shadow is always beside the body. Geography, then, is of two kinds, although mortals only speak of the kind which is agreeable to them. A map of all the cemeteries which there are on the earth would be sufficient indication of the political geography of your world. You would miscalculate, however, in regard to the population; the dead cities are much more densely populated than the living; in the latter there are hardly three generations at one time, while, in the former, hundreds of generations are often crowded together. As for the lights you see shining, they are phosphorescent gleams from dead bodies, or rather they are the expiring gleams of thousands of vanished lives; they are the twilight glow of love, ambition, anger, genius, mercy; they are, in short, the last glow of a dying light, of the individuality which is disappearing, of the being yielding back his elements to mother earth. They are - and now it is that I have found the true word - the foam made by the river when it mingles its waters with those of the ocean.' The Angel of Death paused. ("The Friend of Death")

Then Mount Jerome for the protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute. Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour. Too many in the world.

The office’ is a cemetery of dreams.

There were dozens of stones of all sizes in the small meadow. Tall stones, bigger than either of the boys, and small ones, just the right size for sitting on. There were some broken stones. The Runt knew what sort of place this was, but it did not scare him. It was a loved place.

Three years earlier her father had been buried (irritable and impatient as he always had been) in the Fladstrand Church cemetery that bordered the lovely park, Plantagen, which shared with the cemetery its trees, shared its beech and ash and maple, in the same plot where her mother, wide eyed and confused, had lain down almost willingly two years before, where her brother had lain for thirty-five years, dazed and unwillingly after too short a life. A dove was looking down from atop the family gravestone. It was made from metal so it could not fly away, but sometimes it went missing all the same and only a spike would remain. Someone had taken that dove, someone out there maybe had an entire collection of doves and angels and other small, Christian bronze sculptures in a cupboard at home and on long evenings would close the curtains and take them out and run his fingers gently over the smooth, cold bodies.

The richest person in the cemetery is the one who left the most happy memories.

Tombstones covered the dale, the smooth marble surfaces bright. She had spent days here as a teenager, though not out of any awareness of mortality. Like every adolescent, she intended to live forever.

We don't live our lives with this much order and control. To represent them in death like this is a lie. A proper cemetary should have big, gnarled trees among crumbling angel's and weathered tombstones arranged haphazardly. The grass should be littered with clover and worn down to dirt in places. Not like the manicured, rootless sod in this place.

What could you possibly hope to find in a cemetary?" The women said. "The dead tell no secrets and the living seldom come to visit them.

Who chose burial monuments? Were the wishes of the deceased taken into consideration? It was a subject I'd never considered before.

You plan to rob the world of its treasures if you decide to die with your potentials unleashed! The world needs your leadership influence; don’t take it raw to the cemetery!

Veins of ivy scale stones, find footholds but the caretaker cuts earth short, peels creepers from Cotswold rock and props the dead head to head so they won’t topple like drunks on their moss-soft shadows.

Wherever you go in the next catastrophé Be it sickroom, or prison, or cemet’ry Do not fear that your stay will be solit’ry Countless souls share your fate, you’ll have company!

You are a cool cemetery. You have the sinner’s grave You have the saint’s earth colliding You have all the beds narrow as a knife; as if a rally of tombstones to defend death. But you can’t really postpone the inauguration of my burial, can you? From the poem - Few Words to Cemetery

You cannot go to the cemetery and ask to be enlightened on matters of this kind, though it would ease my mind considerably if you could.

A crazy man finishes in the cemetery.

Every surgeon carries within himself a small cemetery, where from time to time he goes to pray.

I can't date women my own age any more - I hate going to cemeteries.

I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon, In which long worms crawl like remorse.

If they don't let me coach, they might as well take me to the Lexington cemetery.

If it wasn't for baseball, I'd be in either the penitentiary or the cemetery.

I'm afraid of the skeletons in my closet. I've got a whole cemetery full of them.

I realised how rich I had become and I asked myself, 'Do I really want to be the richest person in the cemetery?

It's a small world. When you put it in a cemetery, it is.

I've never seen a Brink's truck follow a hearse to the cemetery.

I wanted to be calm, like a mound with all its cities destroyed, and tranquil, like a full cemetery.

The cemetery is filled with indispensable men.

It is easier to move a cemetery than to change a curriculum.

Some lawns have all the cheer of old cemeteries.

The cemetery is full of people who thought they could change themselves tomorrow.

The cemetery is full of indispensable people.

I can't count how many of my friends are in the cemetery at Normandy, the heroes are still there, the real heroes.

The newspapers are the cemeteries of ideas.

The only place where you can find equality is in the cemetery.

When I was a kid, everybody in the neighborhood picked me to be the one in jail or be in the cemetery by the time I was 20.

There are an awful lot of skinny people in the cemetery.

You're going to the cemetery with your toothbrush. How Egyptian

And when my spirit wants no stimulus or nourishment save music, I know it is to be sought in cemeteries: the musicians hide in the tombs; from grave to grave flute trills, harp chords answer one another.

Cemeteries are full of unfulfilled dreams... countless echoes of 'could have' and 'should have'… Don’t choose to walk the well-worn path to regret.

Don’t carry your ideas to the grave untouched.

A soft breeze settled around our shoulders as we walked into the cemetery. That same breeze made the world around us shiver a little bit. The slick green leaves of the tall trees rustled, and the long curtain of ivy dangling from the branches began to wave. When the ivy blows in the graveyard, it casts the prettiest lacelike shadows on the ground. They remind me of banners, rippling over the dearly departed in silent celebration.

Behind anger, is hidden the cemetery. (Derrière la colère, - Se cache le cimetière.)

Breathing seemed harder in the cemetery, and selfish, somehow...

Cemeteries are full of unfulfilled dreams... countless echoes of 'could have' and 'should have'… countless books unwritten… countless songs unsung... I want to live my life in such a way that when my body is laid to rest, it will be a well needed rest from a life well lived, a song well sung, a book well written, opportunities well explored, and a love well expressed.

Devareux also made mention of finding "angel hair" that melted when touched but was so radioactive as to break a Geiger counter, as well as having been shot with lasers coming from the graves in the Jewish Cemetery. As a lapsed Episcopalian, Jasmine might have been vague as to the details of Jewish burials, but felt confident no Goldstein on record had consented to laser turrets atop their dearly departed Uncle Morrie.

Hanno combattuto per la nostra libertà. Noi siamo ancora liberi, dunque loro sono ancora vivi.