Lord Byron Quotes

It was like a miracle, but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumbled into dust and passed from our sight.

First our pleasures die - and then our hopes, and then our fears - and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust - and we die too.

I like thinking about the fragility of the human flesh and our bodies - our decay and eventual death.

It's the decomposition that gets me. You spend your whole life looking after your body. And then you rot away.

Dust, in the end, settles on everything.

When my mouth shall be filled with dust, and the worm shall feed, and feed sweetly upon me, when the ambitious man shall have no satisfaction if the poorest alive tread upon him, nor the poorest receive any contentment in being made equal to princes, for they shall be equal but in dust.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserv'd virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace.

While you are living, part of you has slipped away to the cemetery.

Mean and mighty, rotting Together, have one dust.

An hour-glass is a reminder not only of time's quick flight, but also of the dust to which we must at last return

We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.

That flesh is but the glasse, which holds the dust That measures all our time; which also shall Be crumbled into dust.

We are dust and to dust return. In the end we're neither air, nor fire, nor water, just dirt, neither more nor less, just dirt, and maybe some yellow flowers.

The body is not important. It is made of dust; it is made of ashes. It is food for the worms. The winds and the waters dissolve it and scatter it to the four corners of the earth. In the end, what we care most for only lasts a brief lifetime, and then there is eternity. Time forever. Millions of worlds are born, evolve, and pass away into nebulous, unmeasured skies; and there is still eternity. Time always. The body becomes dust and trees and exploding fire, it becomes gaseous and disappears, and still there is eternity. Silent, unopposed, brooding, forever.

We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.

You're mortal, and only a mortal can afford to be romantic. When we conquered death, we murdered love.

I contemplate the body, dead and diseased as well as alive and healthy.

The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

[Requesting her epitaph to read this way:] Excuse my dust.

It's quite sad to see how many people I've known over that years that just die off, you know like wilted flowers. Well, there's something to be said for flowers in the dustbin.

Rien n'est plus parfait, plus acheve qu'un cadavre. Nothing is more perfect, more complete than a corpse.

breathing, sleeping, drinking, eating, working, dreaming, everything we do is dying. to live, in fact, is to die.