Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes

History says, 'Don't hope on this side of the grave.'

Never the grave gives back what it has won!

My troubles are many They're deep as a well I swear there ain't no Heaven And I pray there ain't no hell But I'll never know by living only my dying will tell. And when I die and when I'm gone There'll be, one child born And a world to carry on, to carry on.

The dead are never far from us. They're in our hearts and on our minds and in the end all that separates us from them is a single breath, one final puff of air.

Tell me the truth about death. I don't know what it is. We have them, then they are gone but they stay in our minds. Their stories are part of us as long as we live and as long as we tell them or write them down.

If I weren't already dead, I'd have to kill myself just so I could roll over in my grave.

Even in the grave, all is not lost.

Hope is a punishable offense. The verdict is always death; one more death of the heart.

But death is not freedom. For a moment, it can look like freedom. But then it's death. Anything. Something. Nothing.

The grave and the image are equally links with the irrecoverable and symbols for the unimaginable.

Lines I die but when the grave shall press The heart so long endeared to thee When earthy cares no more distress And earthy joys are nought to me. Weep not, but think that I have past Before thee o'er the sea of gloom. Have anchored safe and rest at last Where tears and mouring can not come. 'Tis I should weep to leave thee here On that dark ocean sailing drear With storms around and fears before And no kind light to point the shore. But long or short though life may be 'Tis nothing to eternity. We part below to meet on high Where blissful ages never die.

The grave Is but the threshold of eternity.

My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.

Of all the pulpits from which human voice is ever sent forth, there is none from which it reaches so far as from the grave.

Death is the only monastery; the tomb is the only cell, and the grave that adjoins the convent is the bitterest mock of its futility.

I shall not wholly die, and a great part of me will escape the grave.

There's no jealousy in the grave.

Oh Death where is thy sting! It has none. But life has.

I think writing, or any form of art-making, is a way to prepare for not being here. Not that we can. No amount of preparing can really ready us, in a meaningful way, for the great void that awaits us all.

When my father died of cancer in 1991, he left me with the assurance that he was headed to a better place. He used to always tell me that I was getting the raw end of the deal because I had to stick around here.

I think everyone, especially after the passing of a loved one, starts to hope that maybe there will be something better on the other side.

Have you no hope at all? And do you really live with the thought that when you die, you die, and nothing remains?" "Yes," I said.

There's some that came here never believing they were dead. They insisted all the way that they were alive, it was a mistake, someone would have to pay; made no difference. There's others who longed to be dead when they were alive, poor souls; lives full of pain or misery; killed themselves for a chance of a blessed rest, and found that nothing had changed except for the worse, and this time there was no escape; you can't make yourself alive again.

Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.