Funeral Procession Quotes

No matter how great a man is, the size of his funeral usually depends on the weather.

A loss, but who still mourns the breath of one woman, or laments one wife? Though my heart never can forget, how, for one look, she gave up her life.

Cairo became an empty desert, and there was no one to be seen in the streets. A man could go from the Zuwayla Gate to the Bab al-Nasr without encountering another soul. Wailing could be heard on all sides, and you did not pass a house without being assailed by shrieks. Corpses lay piled along the public way, burial trains jostled one another, and the dead were carried to the graves amidst commotion.

Death is a master from Germany.

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

When I am dead, no pageant train shall waste their sorrows at my bier. Nor worthless pomp of homage vain stain it with hypocritic tear.

My first memories are of picketing ex-servicemen's funerals and telling their families they were going to burn in hell.

Mr. Bernard died on a Monday, at the age of seventy-five, his body wasted. He lay in state for two days in the lobby of the Bernard Gursky Tower and, as he failed to rise on the third, he was duly buried.

The rain increases and umbrellas sprout like mushrooms amongst the graves.

Rome - the city of visible history, where the past of a whole hemisphere seems moving in funeral procession with strange ancestral images and trophies gathered from afar.

It's not the loss of life that makes the death bitter -- it's the obituaries.

The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.

In my hometown of New Orleans, grief is a public spectacle that, somewhat paradoxically, necessitates celebration. The dead are not mourned so much as they are posthumously venerated with music and dance.

Nice day for a funeral.

Where I lived, it was a cold mining place, a village called Dunston. The only time you saw a Rolls-Royce was when somebody died.

It was crazy how a hearse and a pair of sneakers could cheer a guy up.

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.

I can only see death and more death, till we are black and swollen with death.

My own funeral, I'd like to be laid out in a coffin in my own house. I would like my coffin to be put in the double parlor, and I would like all the flowers to be white.

Worldly faces never look so worldly as at a funeral. They have the same effect of grating incongruity as the sound of a coarse voice breaking the solemn silence of night.

Death strode away, stopped, and came back. He pointed a skeletal finger at The Duck Man. WHY, he said, ARE YOU WALKING AROUND WITH THAT DUCK? "What duck?" AH. SORRY.

The people who were marching at Peggy O'Hara's funeral gave the impression they were associated with the INLA, which is supposed to be on ceasefire and to have decommissioned some of their weapons. I ask if they could have honoured her in a more dignified way.