Quotes for Events - Death

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Quotes for death.

Let us endeavor so to live that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry.

Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.
Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.
Death is a Dialogue between, the Spirit and the Dust.
Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.
If I had my life over again I should form the habit of nightly composing myself to thoughts of death. I would practice, as it were, the remembrance of death. There is no other practice which so intensifies life. Death, when it approaches, ought not to take one by surprise. It should be part of the full expectancy of life. Without an ever-present sense of death life is insipid. You might as well live on the whites of eggs.
Where a blood relation sobs, an intimate friend should choke up, a distant acquaintance should sigh, a stranger should merely fumble sympathetically with his handkerchief.
Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
There is no lonelier man in death, except the suicide, than that man who has lived many years with a good wife and then outlived her. If two people love each other there can be no happy end to it.
Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.
Fear no more the heat o the sun, nor the furious winter's rages. Thou thy worldly task hast done, home art gone and taken thy wages.
She was no longer wrestling with the grief, but could sit down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer in her thoughts.
Life, in my estimation, is a biological misadventure that we terminate on the shoulders of six strange men whose only objective is to make a hole in one with you.
Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!
To die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
For those who live neither with religious consolations about death nor with a sense of death (or of anything else) as natural, death is the obscene mystery, the ultimate affront, the thing that cannot be controlled. It can only be denied.
Just like those who are incurably ill, the aged know everything about their dying except exactly when.
Lord, make me to know mine end, and the measure of my days, what it is; that I may know how frail I am.
It is as natural to die as to be born; and to a little infant, perhaps, the one is as painful as the other. He that dies in an earnest pursuit, is like one that is wounded in hot blood; who for the time scarce feels the hurt; and therefore a mind fixed and bent upon somewhat that is good, doth aver the dolours of death.
On the death of a friend, we should consider that the fates through confidence have devolved on us the task of a double living, that we have henceforth to fulfill the promise of our friend's life also, in our own, to the world.
The death of a dear friend, wife, brother, lover, which seemed nothing but privation, somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or genius; for it commonly operates revolutions in our way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of youth which was waiting to be closed, breaks up a wonted occupation, or a household, or style of living, and allows the formation of new ones more friendly to the growth of character.
Those who have been immersed in the tragedy of massive death during wartime, and who have faced it squarely, never allowing their senses and feelings to become numbed and indifferent, have emerged from their experiences with growth and humanness greater than that achieved through almost any other means.
We lose not only through death, but also by leaving and being left, by changing and letting go and moving on. And our losses include not only our separations and departures from those we love, but our conscious and unconscious losses of romantic dreams, impossible expectations, illusions of freedom and power, illusions of safety—and the loss of our own younger self, the self that thought it would always be unwrinkled and invulnerable and immortal.
Think not that I have come in quest of common flowers; but rather to bemoan the loss of one whose scent has vanished from the air.
Dying seems less sad than having lived too little.
Now twilight lets her curtain down / And pins it with a star.
The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.
I contemplate death as though I were continuing after its arrival. I, therefore, survive since I can contemplate myself afterward as well as before.
It’s not that I’m afraid to die, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.
I have never thought there was much to be said in favour of dragging on long after all one’s friends were dead.
If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn’t brood. I’d type a little faster.
Trust not thyself till the day of thy death.
The years seem to rush by now, and I think of death as a fast approaching end of a journey—double and treble reason for loving as well as working while it is day.
Not with a Club, the Heart is broken / Nor with a Stone— / A Whip so small you could not see it / I’ve known / To lash the Magic Creature / Till it fell.
It is not the end of the physical body that should worry us. Rather, our concern must be to live while we’re alive—to release our inner selves from the spiritual death that comes with living behind a façade designed to conform to external definitions of who and what we are.
Their lives are in my heart / but my love grows as I see more / the roots of their wrongs and hopes.
The woman is perfected / Her dead / Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
I’ve a great fancy to see my own funeral afore I die.
It’s a terrible thing to die young. Still, it saves a lot of time.
Always go to other peoples’ funerals otherwise they won’t go to yours.
There is no solution to death … Life intends to kill us.
I suppose there is no man who to-day loves his country who has not perceived that in the life of the nation, as in the life of the individual, the hour of external success may be the hour of irrevocable failure, and that the hour of death, whether to nations or individuals, is often the hour of immortality.
I reason, Earth is short— / And Anguish— absolute— / And many hurt, / But, what of that?
I will leave behind me the dark ravine, and climb up gentler slopes toward that spiritual mesa where at last a wide light will fall upon my days. From there I will sing words of hope, without looking into my heart. As one who was full of compassion wished: I will sing to console men.
It is so hard for us little human beings to accept this deal that we get. It’s really crazy, isn’t it? We get to live, then we have to die. What we put into every moment is all we have.
After all, there are worse things in life than death. If you’ve ever spent an evening with an insurance salesman, you know what I’m talking about.
Death seems to provide the minds of the Anglo-Saxon race with a greater fund of amusement than any other single subject.
How do men act, when they together stand, on the last perch of this swiftly-sinking wreck? / Do they not bravely give their parting cheer, / And make their last voice loud and boldly sound / Amidst the hollow roarings of the storm?
He whispered craftily to me, for the hundredth, the thousandth time, that now was the time to help him die.
Down you mongrel, Death! / Back into your kennel!
I am, and always have been, pro-death. I’m pro-death penalty; I’m pro-choice; I’m pro-assisted suicide; I’m pro-regular suicide—I’m for anything that gets the freeway moving faster.
Death … / … suddenly breathes out: / it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, / and the beds go sailing toward a port / where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition; / This life of mortal breath / Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, / Whose portal we call Death.
Death unites as well as separates; it silences all paltry feeling.
Nothing is more difficult than to understand the dead, I’ve found; but nothing is more dangerous than to ignore them.
To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.
It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more.
So few people achieve the final end. Most are caught napping.
Pardon me for not getting up.
Dawn comes slowly but dusk is rapid.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.
life’s not a paragraph / And death i think is no parenthesis
The planet’s tyrant, dotard Death, had held his gray mirror before them for a moment and shown them the image of things to come.
Being dead is one--the worst, the last--but only one in a series of calamities that afflicts our own and several other species. The list may include, but is not limited to, gingivitis, bowel obstruction, contested divorce, tax audit, spiritual vexation, cash flow problems, political upheaval, and on and on and on some more. There is no shortage of misery.
What is it about death that bothers me so much? Probably the hours. Melnick says the soul is immortal and lives on after the body drops away, but if my soul exists without my body, I am convinced all my clothes will be loose-fitting.
This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wanderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping.
Hooray for the last grand adventure! I wish I had won, but it was worthwhile anyway.
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Old and young, we are all on our last cruise.
Death is beautiful when seen to be a law, and not an accident--It is as common as life.
God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness--to glory?
So far as I have observed persons nearing the end of life, the Roman Catholics understand the business of dying better than Protestants. They have an expert by them, armed with spiritual specifics, in which they both, patient and priestly ministrant, place implicit trust. Confession, the Eucharist, Extreme Unction,--these all inspire a confidence which without this symbolism is too apt to be wanting in over-sensitive natures.
It is the secret of the world that all things subsist and do not die, but only retire from sight and afterwards return again.
Life is sweet, let me tell you, and never sweeter than when we are near losing it.
. . . they say the tongues of dying men Enforce attention like deep harmony. Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain, For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
Though since thy first sad entrance by Just Abel's blood, 'Tis now six thousand years well nigh, And still thy sovereignty holds good: Yet by none art thou understood.
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear, To be we know not what, we know not where.
My ancestors are turned to clay, And many of my mates are gone, My youngers daily drop away, And can I think to 'scape alone? No, no, I know that I must die, And yet my life amend not I.
No one knows whether death is really the greatest blessing a man can have, but they fear it is the greatest curse, as if they knew well.
To be dead is the same as never to have been born, And better far than living on in wretchedness. The dead feel nothing; evil then can cause no pain.
Spring will not ail nor summer falter; / Nothing will know that you are gone ….
Oh, everything is gorgeous once it’s gone.
No one seems to have said that it was an appropriate death though we know that all deaths are appropriate.
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs.
Death is the final stage of growth in this life. There is no total death. Only the body dies. The self or spirit, or whatever you may wish to label it, is eternal.
You haven’t lived until you’ve died in California.
Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince; / And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
I can remember how when I was young I believed death to be a phenomenon of the body; now I know it to be merely a function of the mind—and that of the minds who suffer the bereavement. The nihilists say it is the end; the fundamentalists, the beginning; when in reality it is no more than a single tenant or family moving out of a tenement or a town.
One always dies too soon—or too late.
Death has been treated too much as a subject for melancholy reflection, or as an occasion for self-discipline, or as a rather hazy theological entity. . . . What we have to do is to see it in its true context, see it as an active reality, as one more phase, in a world and a "becoming" that are those of our own experience.
Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet, On all the passages of sense, The atoning oil is spread with sweet Renewal of lost innocence.
Every life, no matter if its hour is rich with love and every moment jewelled with joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death.
We've wholly forgotten how to die. But be sure you do die nevertheless. Do your work, and finish it. If you know how to begin, you will know when to end
Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
The mystics conceived of the body as an encumbering garment which falls away at death and leaves the true man free to rise into the light of the heavenly life.

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