That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone: Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment.
An angel visited the green earth, and took a flower away.
In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.
For they can conquer who believe they can.
Sleep after toyle, port after stormie seas, Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please.
Tears are often the telescope by which men see far into heaven.
They who forgive most shall be most forgiven.
What I spent I lost; what I possessed is left to others; what I gave away remains with me.
Twilight drops her curtain down, and pins it with a star.
This Grave contains all that was Mortal of a Young English Poet Who on his Death Bed in the Bitterness of his Heart at the Malicious Power of his Enemies Desired these words to be engraved on his Tomb Stone "Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water."
Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
"Let there be no inscription upon my tomb. Let no man write my epitaph. No man can write my epitaph. I am here ready to die. I am not allowed to vindicate my character; and when I am prevented from vindicating myself, let no man dare calumniate me. Let my character and motives repose in obscurity and peace, till other times and other men can do them justice.
Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Botswain, a dog.
I picture my epitaph: 'Here lies Paul Newman, who died a failure because his eyes turned brown.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
And alien tears will fill for him pity's long broken urn. For his mourners will all be outcast men, and outcasts always mourn.
Death is not a foe, but an inevitable adventure.
Sleep undisturbed within this peaceful shrine, Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.
Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!
To live in the hearts of others is not to die
The song is ended, but the melody lingers on.
Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
If, after I depart this vale, you ever remember me and have thought to please my ghost, forgive some sinner and wink your eye at some homely girl.
The epitaphs on tombstones of a great many people should read: Died at thirty, and buried at sixty.
Reading the epitaphs, our only salvation lies in resurrecting the dead and burying the living.
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