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It’s no accident that the church and the graveyard stand side by side. The city of the dead sleeps encircled by the city of the living.
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It’s not that I’m afraid to die. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.’ Woody Allen
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It’s sad when our daddies die. Makes us one less person inside.
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It’s stunning to me, the barrage of articles about the impending death of the movie theater.
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I’ve been accused of every death except the casualty list of the World War.
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I’ve been thinking of death a lot, and I am amazed by its inevitability, frightened, as we all are, of the totally unknown, and yet feel a long sleep is somehow earned by those of us who live on the edge.
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I’ve dealt with death a lot, but nothing like this.
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I’ve got children there, grownup there and I’m about to starve to death. I sure appreciate what they did. I sure do!
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Jesus does not want us to say, ‘dead,’ for, He said, ‘all live unto Him,’ though they seem dead to us.
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Joy, shipmate, joy (Pleas’d to my soul at death I cry,) Our life is closed, our life begins, The long, long anchorage we leave, The ship is clear at last, she leaps! Joy, shipmate, joy!
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Judge none blessed before his death.
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Just death, kind umpire of men’s miseries.
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Kings and mightiest potentates must die, For that’s the end of human misery.
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Leisure without literature is death and burial alive.
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Let no man fear to die, we love to sleep all, and death is but the sounder sleep.
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Let ‘s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs.
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Let us live like those who expect to die, and then we shall find that we feared death only because we were unacquainted with it.
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Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let’s choose executors and talk of wills. And yet not so–for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke’s, And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as past and cover to our bones.
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Liberty for wolves is death to the lambs.
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Life death all does end and each day dies with sleep.
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