Chief Joseph Quotes

Your father has to die, better he dies in your arms.

Death, vicious death, Leave a green branch for love.

In peace, sons bury their fathers. In war, fathers bury their sons.

It is possible to take something beautiful and lasting out of the heart-wrenching experience of seeing the animal you love move inexorably toward death.

I admit that death is not just about you, it's also about the people who love you.

The grief of losing my father has come in waves over the years, as it does with most people. His love and devotion as a father provided my closest, most intimate relationship. Dad, and our time together, is in my bones. While reflecting on him, the memories themselves seem to boil down into certain 'essences of Dad.'

I wanted to acknowledge that life goes on but that death goes on, too. A person who is dead is a long, long story.

But more importantly, I think he remembered how very close I was with my own dad, who had died in 1997.

I feel my dad, I still feel his love, and I still love him. I would do anything to have him back, but half the reason that my life is good, has real, true value, is that he died. I would obviously rather have him alive, but he gave me so much in his death.

When I am dead and opened, you shall find Calais lying in my heart.

People live, people die. It's always hard when it's a member of your family.

The only way to take sorrow out of death is to take love out of life.

When you lose someone you love, you don't think the same way. And that's why I say I enjoy life: because it goes very fast.

The loss of my father will always sting. But now, everything that I do is in honor of him and celebrates his life.

The dead they sleep a long, long sleep; The dead they rest, and their rest is deep; The dead have peace, but the living weep.

To us who remain behind is left this day of memories. Every year--in the full tide of spring, at the height of the symphony of flowers and love and life--there comes a pause, and through the silence we hear the lonely pipe of death.

For as long as the world spins and the earth is green with new wood, she will lie in this box and not in my arms.

Low on his funeral couch he lies!

In death, lie. In living, cry. Carry me home to remember to be remembered.

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, that all of thee we loved and cherished has with thy summer roses perished; and left, as its young beauty fled, an ashen memory in its stead.

I have lived with you and loved you, and now you are gone. Gone where I cannot follow, until I have finished all of my days.

When the friends we love the best Lie in their churchyard bed, We must not cry too bitterly Over the happy dead.