Emily Dickinson Quotes

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.

Rain in the graveyard, and the world puddled into blurred reflections.

Graved inside of it, "Italy".

How many people have a family grave in the backyard? I'm sure I'll end up there, or I'll shrink my head and put it in a glass box in the living room. I'll get more tourists to Graceland that way.

You look like a talent scout for a cemetery.

When we see the many grave-stones which have fallen in, which have been defaced by the footsteps of the congregation, which lie buried under the ruins of the churches, that have themselves crumbled together over them; we may fancy the life after death to be as a second life, into which man enters in the figure, or the picture or the inscription, and lives longer there than when he was really alive. But this figure also, this second existence, dies out too, sooner or later. Time will not allow himself to be cheated of his rights with the monuments of men or with themselves.

Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she's at rest, and so am I.

People love to hate the gravedigger.

The reason so many people turned up at his funeral is that they wanted to make sure he was dead.

To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.

Left love behind many years ago. Now it rests under a cross in the cemetery in Tombstone.

Tombs are the clothes of the dead and a grave is a plain suit; while an expensive monument is one with embroidery.

The beautiful uncut hair of graves.

I'll take the cemetery," Kane said. He didn't sound excited. Rather, he sounded resigned. "The club might collapse if I go.

The cemetery is full of indispensable people.

Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well; why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell.

Requiescat Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life’s buried here, Heap earth upon it.

Cemeteries in Bohemia are like gardens. The graves are covered with grass and colourful flowers. Modest tombstones are lost in the greenery. When the sun goes down, the cemetery sparkles with tiny candles... no matter how brutal life becomes, peace always reigns in the cemetery. Even in wartime, even in Hitler's time, even in Stalin's time.

At the great iron gate of the churchyard he stopped and looked in. He looked up at the high tower spectrally resisting the wind, and he looked round at the white tombstones, like enough to the dead in their winding-sheets, and he counted the nine tolls of the clock-bell.

I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon, In which long worms crawl like remorse.

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

There's a coffin in the back of the church as the wedding is going on ... Look, I'm a romantic. I like marriage...In the movies.

I got this grave yard woman.

There where hundreds of graves. There where hundreds of women. There were hundreds of daughters. There were hundreds of sons. And hundreds upon hundreds upon thousands of candles. The whole graveyard was one swarm of candleshine as if a population of fireflies had heard of a Grand Conglomeration and had flown here to settle in and flame upon the stones and light the brown faces and the dark eyes and the black hair.

A grave is such a quiet place.