Bram Stoker Quotes

Dust, in the end, settles on everything.

Look at everything that exists, and observe that it is already in dissolution and in change, and as it were putrefaction or dispersion, or that everything is so constituted by nature as to die.

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.

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.

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

What ever truth drops on it eventually grinds to a powder.

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.

All things are only transitory.

I like things that are just about to go. Everything's leaving. Death is never far away from me. When you make something, death can't help but be in it.

You've got to learn to accept the law of life, and face the fact that we disintegrate slowly.

Time is death.

The Flower that once has blown forever dies.

Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses.

We are tiny flames, Helikaon, and we flicker alone in the great dark for no more than a heartbeat. When we strive for wealth, glory and fame, it is meaningless. The nations we fight for will one day cease to be. Even the mountains we gaze upon will crumble to dust. To truly live we must yearn for that which does not die.

Man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.

I will be dust, but dust in love

Death devours all lovely things.

And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Mean and mighty, rotting Together, have one dust.

For some reason focusing on destruction and mortality is more poetically exciting to me than hope and love.