Listen with your heart, you will understand.— Pocahontas
Mouth-watering Death Poems quotations
They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it. Death cannot kill what never dies.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.
I am I and you are you, whatever we were to each other that we still are.
Life is eternal; and love is immortal; and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.
A long-term substance abuser, a few months before his death, penned this poem: Went downtown, Hastings and Main, looking for relief from the pain. All I did was find a ticket on a one-way train. ... Give me peace before I die. The track is laid out so well; we all live our private hell; just more tickets on the hell-bound train.
In the depths of your hopes and desires, lies your silent knowledge of the beyond, and like seeds dreaming beneath the snow, your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.
When the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me
Poems in a way are spells against death.
They are milestones, to see where you were then from where you are now. To perpetuate your feelings, to establish them. If you have in any way touched the central heart of mankind's feelings, you'll survive.
Death cannot kill what never dies.
Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
Death is nothing at all; it does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room.
Oh heart, if one should say to you that the soul perishes like the body, answer that the flower withers, but the seed remains.
And if God choose I shall but love thee better after death.
Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.
I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well.
I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!-and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
Friends share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.
Like every other form of art, literature is no more and nothing less than a matter of life and death. The only question worth asking about a story — or a poem, or a piece of sculpture, or a new concert hall — is, Is it dead or alive?
Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room.
For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
A horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.
I walked a mile with Pleasure; She chattered all the way. But left me none the wiser For all she had to say. I walked a mile with Sorrow And ne'er a word said she; But oh, the things I learned from her When Sorrow walked with me!
You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life.
If you would behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and sea are one.
The stars are not wanted now, put out every one Pack up the moon & dismantle the sun.
Often in winter the end of the day is like the final metaphor in a poem celebrating death: there is no way out.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond.
Fold him in his country's stars. Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly?
Alas, how can we help but mourn When hero bosoms yield their breath! A century itself may bear But once the flower of such a death.
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.