Quotes From The Dead Poets Society Novels & Stories

I fell to my knees and to the ground, losing all consciousness. My long lashes fluttered weakly against each other once more before they gave up and I felt myself being carried away by strong hands. Everything is over now. It was all gone. ****Author's note**** Please leave a vote and your thoughts. 'Everything is over now.' Do you believe that is true? Anyways, from the quote of Hermann Hesse "Who would be born must first destroy a world.” Chapter Soundtrack: Ghost town by Benson Boone

“Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those who thou think’st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me John Donne She smiles to herself as she dresses up for breakfast, remembering the events of the past night.

He crossed his arms while narrowing his eyes at me. Time passed while playing, laughing and revealing a few things about each other which made me late for the office. Just thinking about it gives me a weird feeling. •••••••••••••• 'Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see'. ~Mark Twain. I used this quote in my poem. H.LOCKHART.

“Come on, just a sip.” “Oh…no.” I insist. “Yeah…I want to… feel this ‘feeling’ sober. I guess you could say that.” I finish as I gesture at the gravestones around us. “Nothing gets people recognising their mortality like the dead and dying.” He utters before taking a swig. “So, how do you deal with this?” “‘This’ as in existential depression?” “No!” I chuckle slightly. Have we ever had such a light conversation before? It feels good.

I continued, keeping my eyes fixed on my pale, skinny fingers clutched around my knees, “and goes back to reading. But then there’s a tap on his window, and a raven flies in. He asks it questions, and it only answers with one word: ‘nevermore.’ He asks it about Lenore, but still its reply remains the same. “The man asks the raven if he will join Lenore in heaven when he dies, if their souls will be joined once more. At the raven’s answer – you guessed it, ‘nevermore’ – the man says, well, ‘be that our word of parting’ – he wants it to leave. It is a reminder of death, yet it sits, unmoving, watching him as he dissolves further into madness. Death remains with him, as it does with us all.” “G

I storm out Why won't anyone believe me, I have a real life vampires blood Arrg! after everything I went through, still just insults I did my study on those creatures for years, and I can still remember some of my favourite poetry and poems I read as a kid A Last Word by Ernest Dowson Let us go hence: the night is now at hand; The day is overworn, the birds all flown; And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown; Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land,

The graveyard was so neat. Row upon row of white marble tombstones all rising from the thick blanket of snow. Each one was perfect, polished and exactly the same as all of the others, except the name it bore. They were lined up perfectly with those in front and behind, a city block for the dead. Life is but a roaming shadow, a pitiable thespian. Who struts and frets his few moments upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale imparted by a foolish wit, full of noise and fury... yet meaningless nonetheless.

“One thought at a time, meatball. First, let me dignify your sloppy question with a proper answer.” He motions with his gloved fingers holding the cigarette towards the now lively, constantly shifting mosaic on the computer walls depicting the mystery girl at the coffee shop. “This,” Septimus rasps, “is my Helen, as you would say in your tongue, my Cleopatra, my Delilah.” His metaphors sound as though they’ve been pilfered from CliffsNotes and Wikipedia, suspicious and off-key. To be exact, I could never have imagined in my wildest dreams listening to Death quote from English literature and even the Bible!

An hour later, after searching for anything to help us within books that ranged from brand new to hundreds of years old, I huffed with disappointment and decided to stretch my legs; my pale finger trailed over the spines of books, dust painting my fingertip. Once I reached the poetry section, I smiled brightly. All around me were books from Silvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickson, Robert Frost, and many others that were like my old friends. Taking a random book off the shelf, I flipped through its contents. "(...) Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." ~ Tecumseh "You enjoy poetry too?" A familiar voice spoke behind me, making my heart speed up as I jumped slightly. Turn