Soldier, rest! Thy warfare o'er.
Everything that has a beginning has an ending. Make your peace with that and all will be well.
Oh heart, if one should say to you that the soul perishes like the body, answer that the flower withers, but the seed remains.
But the freedom that they fought for, and the country grand they wrought for, Is their monument to-day, and for aye.
When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there, I did not die.
Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.
The United States and the freedom for which it stands, the freedom for which they died, must endure and prosper. Their lives remind us that freedom is not bought cheaply. It has a cost; it imposes a burden. And just as they whom we commemorate were willing to sacrifice, so too must we - in a less final, less heroic way - be willing to give of ourselves.
Chance has never yet satisfied the hope of a suffering people. Action, self-reliance, the vision of self and the future have been the only means by which the oppressed have seen and realized the light of their own freedom.
The song is ended, but the melody lingers on.
In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.
Monuments are the grappling-irons that bind one generation to another.
Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.
I am I and you are you, whatever we were to each other that we still are.
Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile.
Change your life today. Don't gamble on the future, act now, without delay.
I can't think of a more wonderful thanksgiving for the life I've had than that everyone should be jolly at my funeral.
Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past.
Future years will never know the seething hell and the black infernal background, the countless minor scenes and interiors of the secession war; and it is best they should not. The real war will never get in the books.
As America celebrates Memorial Day, we pay tribute to those who have given their lives in our nation's wars.
If we have been pleased with life, we should not be displeased with death, since it comes from the hand of the same master.
Death ends a life, not a relationship.
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic patriotism?
Things must be felt with the heart.
Cover them over with beautiful flowers, Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours, Lying so silent by night and by day Sleeping the years of their manhood away. Give them the meed they have won in the past; Give them the honors their future forcast; Give them the chaplets they won in the strife; Give them the laurels they lost with their life.
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