A grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul.

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Bethpeor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day.

For I know that thou wilt bring me to death, and to the house appointed for all living.

I would rather sleep in the southern corner of a little country churchyard, than in the tombs of the Capulets.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's ...

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour, The paths of glory lead but to the grave.