Best 83 quotes in «cemetery quotes» category

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

Some lawns have all the cheer of old cemeteries.

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

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

The newspapers are the cemeteries of ideas.

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

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

The cemetery is full of indispensable people.

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

The cemetery is filled with indispensable men.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

He was walking back through the cemetery to his car when he came upon a black man digging a grave with a shovel. The man was standing about two feet down in the unfinished grave and stopped shoveling and hurling the dirt out to the side as the visitor approached him. He wore dark coveralls and an old baseball cap, and from the gray in his mustache and the lines in his face he looked to be at least fifty. His frame, however, was still thick and strong. "I thought they did this with a machine," he said to the gravedigger. "In big cemeteries, where they do many graves, a lot of times they use a machine, that's right." He spoke like a Southerner, but very matter-of-factly, very precisely, more like a pedantic schoolteacher than a physical laborer. "I don't use a machine," the gravedigger continued, "because it can sink the other graves. THe soil can give and it can crush in on the box. And you have the gravestones you have to deal with. It's just easier in my case to do everything by hand. Much neater. Easier to take the dirt away without ruining anything else. I use a real small tractor that I can maneuver easily, and I dig by hand.

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

Have a look around, my pretty, we are surrounded by Death in all forms – just the two of us are still alive –

He’d seen a lot of bizarre items left at gravesides, like a carton of eggs, a pair of reading glasses, a bag of licorice, smooth stones, a spoon.

He stroked her back and kept a fierce grip on her like she’d fade away into one of the thousands of ghosts in this cemetery.

Don’t carry your ideas to the grave untouched.

Ideas taken and planted into the grave do not germinate.

I agree, and I doubt coma boy will even notice. I mean seriously, the guy was buried alive for heaven’s sake,” I added. -Cora

I have always enjoyed cemeteries. Altars for the living as well as resting places for the dead, they are entryways, I think, to any town or city, the best places to become acquainted with the tastes of the inhabitants, both present and gone.

I hate to say this, but I am still holding somewhat of a grudge at the people that could have come to the funeral but didn't, especially when they came up with some lame excuse how it was too sad or how they were afraid of cemeteries or whatever. No justification in the world could make up for you not being there when someone needs you. Period.

I remember calling the council's cemetery department to ask about body decomposition in different soil types. Once they had verified that I was a novelist and not a sicko, they were extremely helpful.

In the beginning we start with roses. The king’s flower right? Only they wilt in less than a day, especially when exposed to the elements. But Carnations? Oh, what a beautiful flower. They come in every color. True, some are painted, but that doesn’t mean they are less beautiful, and they never wilt.

I shook with cold and fear, without being able to answer. After a lapse of some moments, I was again called. I made an effort to speak, and then felt the bandage which wrapped me from head to foot. It was my shroud. At last, I managed feebly to articulate, 'Who calls?' 'Tis I' said a voice. 'Who art thou?' 'I! I! I!' was the answer; and the voice grew weaker, as if it was lost in the distance; or as if it was but the icy rustle of the trees. A third time my name sounded on my ears; but now it seemed to run from tree to tree, as if it whistled in each dead branch; so that the entire cemetery repeated it with a dull sound. Then I heard a noise of wings, as if my name, pronounced in the silence, had suddenly awakened a troop of nightbirds. My hands, as if by some mysterious power, sought my face. In silence I undid the shroud which bound me, and tried to see. It seemed as if I had awakened from a long sleep. I was cold. I then recalled the dread fear which oppressed me, and the mournful images by which I was surrounded. The trees had no longer any leaves upon them, and seemed to stretch forth their bare branches like huge spectres! A single ray of moonlight which shone forth, showed me a long row of tombs, forming an horizon around me, and seeming like the steps which might lead to Heaven. All the vague voices of the night, which seemed to preside at my awakening, were full of terror. ("The Dead Man's Story")

I stopped in St. Bernadette's Cemetery one of my favorite places... The trunks of six giant oaks rise like columns supporting a ceiling formed by their interlocking crowns. In the quiet space below, is laid out an aisle similar to those in any library. The gravestones are like rows of books bearing the names of those whose names have been blotted from the pages of life; who have been forgotten elsewhere but are remembered here.

It is upon such stones that men attempt to permanently etch history so they will not exist in a vacuum; it is the final statement after a lifetime of scratching out divisions upon the ground, over ephemeral time itself, merely to give their short journeys meaning, to tell others “I was here – do not forget me, do not let my brief blast dissolve into nothingness.

It's like a memorial to Atlantis or Lyonesse: these are the stone buoys that mark a drowned world.

It waited for her. Standing resolute in the moonlight, it had stood for a hundred years. Yet it waited just for her. Shadows passed across the moon, a cool breeze ruffled the leaves around it. Yet still it waited for her. Ancient tombs glowed in shimmery moonlight, row upon row of cold silent witnesses.

For as much as I hate the cemetery, I’ve been grateful it’s here, too. I miss my wife. It’s easier to miss her at a cemetery, where she’s never been anything but dead, than to miss her in all the places where she was alive.

My ghost is the only soul who ever comes to cry on my grave... Only the skies cried sincerely on my funeral.

My body weeps to live when you make me believe that someday I will be dead soul sleepless in graveyard's bed

Live an exemplary life as a leader. When you are gone, you will still lead from the grave because your influence, impacts and inspirations will become and information for the living.

Not that there seems to be any appropriate place to bury someone, but these municipal cemeteries, or any cemetery at all for that matter, like the ones by the highway, or the ones in the middle of town, with all these bodies with their corresponding rocks - oh it's just too primitive and vulgar, isn't it? The hole, and the box, and the rock on the grass? And we glamorize this process, feel it fitting and dramatic, austerely beautiful, standing there by the hole as we lower the box. It's incredible. Barbaric and base.