A Quote by Lord Byron
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
Related Quotes
Every man becomes the image of the God he adores. He whose worship is directed to a dead thing becomes dead. He who loves corruption rots. He who loves a shadow becomes, himself, a shadow. He who loves things that must perish lives in dread of their perishing.
I wish I was dead,And lay deep in the grave.I've a pain in my head,I wish I was dead.In a coffin of lead-With the Wise and the Brave-I wish I was dead,And lay deep in the grave.
(a womanist) 3. Loves music. Loves dance. Loves the moon. Loves the Spirit. Loves love and food and roundness. Loves struggle. Loves the Folk. Loves herself. Regardless.
He sought...to transform the grief which looks down into the grave by showing it the grief which looks up to the stars.
I surround myself with fantastical things because it makes it a little easier to write fantastical stories.
The sports apparel industry was dominated by the big shoe companies. But there was a void in apparel and I decided to fill it.
I wanted to make the world's greatest football undershirt. But I realized that no team sport had equipment for apparel. Apparel was an afterthought.
Excess of grief for the dead is madness; for it is an injury to the living, and the dead know it not.
You mourn, for it is proper to mourn. But your grief serves you; you do not become a slave to grief. You bid the dead farewell, and you continue.
To close the eyes, and give a seemly comfort to the apparel of the dead, is poverty's holiest touch of nature.
In Colma, a suburb of San Francisco, California there's a proposal pending to tax . . . the dead. If proponents get their way, grave sites will be taxed $5 dollars - per grave, per year - for eternity. In Colma the dead outnumber the living by a ratio of roughly 1000-to-1, including such notables as: Wyatt Earp, Levi Strauss, and William Randolph Hearst. And they, apparently, haven't paid their fair share. For liberals, when it comes to taxes . . . nothing is sacred.
How nice it would be to be dead if only we could know we were dead. That is what I hate, the not being able to turn round in the grave and to say It is over.
New grief, when it came, you could feel filling the air. It took up all the room there was. The place itself, the whole place, became a reminder of the absence of the hurt or the dead or the missing one. I don't believe that grief passes away. It has its time and place forever. More time is added to it; it becomes a story within a story. But grief and griever alike endure.
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads, My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, My gay apparel for an almsman's gown, My figured goblets for a dish of wood, My scepter for a palmer's walking staff My subjects for a pair of carved saints and my large kingdom for a little grave.
When writing fantastical literature, your biggest problem is getting your audience to believe the fantastical elements of your story.
Another misconception is that if we truly loved someone, we will never finish with our grief, as if continued sorrow is a testimonial to our love. But true love does not need grief to support its truth. Love can last in a healthy and meaningful way, once our grief is dispelled. We can honor our dead more by the quality of our continued living than by our constantly remembering the past.
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