#graveyard

Kiss a lover, Dance a measure, Find your name and buried treasure. Face your life, it's pain, it's pleasure, Leave no path untaken. ↗

— Neil Gaiman

#life

They say it's better to bury your sadness in a graveyard or garden that waits for the spring to wake from its sleep and burst into green. ↗

— Conor Oberst

#burst #bury #garden #graveyard #green

Within its gates I heard the sound Of winds in cypress caverns caught Of huddling tress that moaned, and sought To whisper what their roots had found. (“A Dream of Fear”) ↗

— George Sterling

#graveyard #horror #scary #supernatural #trees

Ben often comes here. It's some kind of kangaroo graveyard. He likes to collect kangaroo bones. What can I say? It's just something Stink Collectors do. ↗

— J.E. Fison

#graveyard #kangaroos #money

The graveyards are full of indispensable men. ↗

— Charles de Gaulle

#graveyards #indispensable #men

My Own Epitaph Life's a jest, and all things show it. I thought so once, and now I know it. ↗

— John Gay

#humor #humor

They told of dripping stone walls in uninhabited castles and of ivy-clad monastery ruins by moonlight, of locked inner rooms and secret dungeons, dank charnel houses and overgrown graveyards, of footsteps creaking upon staircases and fingers tapping at casements, of howlings and shriekings, groanings and scuttlings and the clanking of chains, of hooded monks and headless horseman, swirling mists and sudden winds, insubstantial specters and sheeted creatures, vampires and bloodhounds, bats and rats and spiders, of men found at dawn and women turned white-haired and raving lunatic, and of vanished corpses and curses upon heirs. ↗

— Susan Hill

#ghosts #gothic #graveyards #horror #ruins

I used to work the graveyard shift. ↗

— Bradley Cooper

#i #shift #used #work

Loyalty is a fine quality, but in excess it fills political graveyards. ↗

— Neil Kinnock

#fills #fine #graveyards #loyalty #political

I shook with cold and fear, without being able to answer. After a lapse of some moments, I was again called. I made an effort to speak, and then felt the bandage which wrapped me from head to foot. It was my shroud. At last, I managed feebly to articulate, 'Who calls?' 'Tis I' said a voice. 'Who art thou?' 'I! I! I!' was the answer; and the voice grew weaker, as if it was lost in the distance; or as if it was but the icy rustle of the trees. A third time my name sounded on my ears; but now it seemed to run from tree to tree, as if it whistled in each dead branch; so that the entire cemetery repeated it with a dull sound. Then I heard a noise of wings, as if my name, pronounced in the silence, had suddenly awakened a troop of nightbirds. My hands, as if by some mysterious power, sought my face. In silence I undid the shroud which bound me, and tried to see. It seemed as if I had awakened from a long sleep. I was cold. I then recalled the dread fear which oppressed me, and the mournful images by which I was surrounded. The trees had no longer any leaves upon them, and seemed to stretch forth their bare branches like huge spectres! A single ray of moonlight which shone forth, showed me a long row of tombs, forming an horizon around me, and seeming like the steps which might lead to Heaven. All the vague voices of the night, which seemed to preside at my awakening, were full of terror. ("The Dead Man's Story") ↗

— James Hain Friswell

#graveyard #horror #terror #art