Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work— I am the grass; I cover all.
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Oh, fuck you! Fuck you, pal! There you go again trying to pass the buck. I'm the source of all your misery. Who closed the store to play hockey? Who closed the store to go to a wake? Who tried to win back his ex girlfriend without even discussing how he felt about it with his present girlfriend? 'I'm not even supposed to be here today.' You sound like an asshole! Jesus, nobody twisted your arm to be here today. You're here under your own volition. You like to think that the weight of the world rests on Dante's shoulders. Like this place would fall apart if Dante wasn't here. Christ, you overcompensate for what's basically a monkey's job. You push fucking buttons. Anybody can just waltz in here and do our jobs. You're so obsessed with making it seem so much more epic and important than it really is. You work at a convenience store, Dante! And badly, I might add! I work at a shitty video store, badly as well. That guy Jay's got it right, man. He's got no delusions about what he does. Us, we like to think that we're so much more advanced than the people that come in here everyday to buy paper, or, god forbid, cigarettes. Well, if we're so fucking advanced, what are we doing working here?
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The summer day is closed - the sun is set: Well they have done their office, those bright hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out In the red west. The green blade of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil, From bursting cells, and in their graves await Their resurrection. Insects from the pools Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, That now are still for ever; painted moths Have wandered the blue sky, and died again
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Earth has waited for them, All the time of their growth Fretting for their decay: Now she has them at last!
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Out of a grave I come to tell you this, Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss...
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Has God's supply of tolerable husbands Fallen, in fact, so low?...
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Our graves that hide us from the searching sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done....
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Every English poet should master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them.
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Anthropologists are a connecting link between poets and scientists though their field-work among primitive peoples has often made them forget the language of science.
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Why have such scores of lovely, gifted girls Married impossible men?...
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Sentimental irony is a dog that bays at the moon while pissing on graves.
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Like man and wife who nightly keep Inconsequent debate in sleep As they dream side by side.
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Marriage, like money, is still with us; and, like money, progressively devalued.
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To these, whom Death again did wed, This grave's the second Marriage-bed.
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There is no money in poetry, but then there is no poetry in money either.
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The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he really is very good, in spite of all the people who say he is very good.
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We have seen the best of our time. Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders follow us disquietly to our graves.
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We are afraid They would envy our delight, In our graves by glow-worm night.
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When the leaves fall, the whole earth is a cemetery pleasant to walk in. I love to wander and muse over them in their graves. Here are no lyin...
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The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
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Timon hath made his everlasting mansion Upon the beached verge of the salt flood,...
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Some sepulcher, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath thrown,...
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With spots quadrangular of diamond form,/ Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, / And spades, the emblem of untimely graves.
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Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
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Its throes will heave our exuviæ from their graves.
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A resurrection waits in the future of all people, whether saved or lost, kingdom saints or the Body of Christ. 'Marvel not at this for the hour is coming, in which all that are in the graves shall hear His voice, and come forth they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life and they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation' (Jn. 528, 29).
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The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree, which precede flowers and fruit -- not a fossil earth, but a living earth; compared with whose great central life all animal and vegetable life is merely parasitic. Its throes will heave our exuviate from their graves.
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At first cock-crow the ghosts must go
Back to their quiet graves below.
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And we passed to the end of a vista, But were stopped by the door of a tomb—...
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Where today are the Pequot Where are the Narragansett, the Mohican, the Pokanoket, and many other once powerful tribes of our people They have vanished before the avarice and the oppression of the White Man, as snow before a summer sun. Will we let ourselves be destroyed in our turn without a struggle, give up our homes, our country bequeathed to us by the Great Spirit, the graves of our dead and everything that is dear to us I know you will cry with me, NEVER NEVER.
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