Pastoral Resources

Every time I think that I am getting old, and gradually going to the grave, something else happens.

Marriage is the grave or tomb of wit.

We believe, as the President has indicated, that this combination of a rogue state that possesses weapons of mass destruction and has known ties to terrorist organizations, is a grave threat to the people of the United States and to other countries around the world.

A resignation is a grave act; never performed by a right minded man without forethought or with reserve.

It's never easy with characters in these dark and grave circumstances but that's my job.

One keeps forgetting old age up to the very brink of the grave.

Of present fame think little, and of future less; the praises that we receive after we are buried, like the flowers that are strewed over our grave, may be gratifying to the living, but they are nothing to the dead.

The two most precious things this side of the grave are our reputation and our life. But it is to be lamented that the most contemptible whisper may deprive us of the one, and the weakest weapon of the other.

Call it vanity, call it arrogant presumption, call it what you wish, but I would grope for the nearest open grave if I had no newspaper to work for, no need to search for and sometimes find the winged word that just fits, no keen wonder over what each unfolding day may bring.

One half of my life has put the other half in the grave.

The fact that a Republican is in the late Senator Kennedy's old seat probably must have him rolling in his grave, probably spilling his drink.

Sometimes it feels as if everything in life is just something we haul into the grave.

Life was a funny thing that happened to me on the way to the grave.

You fall out of your mother's womb, you crawl across open country under fire, and drop into your grave.

Isn't it sad to go to your grave without ever wondering why you were born? Who, with such a thought, would not spring from bed, eager to resume discovering the world and rejoicing to be part of it?

Nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own; and from morning to night, as from the cradle to the grave, it is but a succession of changes so gentle and easy that we can scarcely mark their progress.

Confession is always weakness. The grave soul keeps its own secrets, and takes its own punishment in silence.

We can know nothing till after this grave debate. The soul must withdraw, for this is not its hour. Now the knife must divide the flesh, and lay the ravage bare, and do its work completely.

All over the world the wildlife that I write about is in grave danger. It is being exterminated by what we call the progress of civilization.

Jealousy is the grave of affection.