Most people die with their music still locked up inside them.

And when my spirit wants no stimulus or nourishment save music, I know it is to be sought in cemeteries: the musicians hide in the tombs; from grave to grave flute trills, harp chords answer one another.

Music is often the kingdom the dead inhabits in our soul.

Many people die with their music still in them. Too often it is because they are always getting ready to live. Before they know it time runs out.

Most men go to their graves with their dreams still inside them

Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them!

I am now about to enter on my normal condition. For people are almost always in their graves. When we survey the long race of men, it is strange and still more strange to find that they are mainly dead men, who have scarcely ever been otherwise.

Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory.

Mine first — mine last — mine even in the grave!

<b>Music, When Soft Voices Die</b>

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

The songs of the dead are the lamentations of the living.

When you raise the dead, they bring their baggage.

I have sent books and music there, and all / Those instruments with which high spirits call / The future from its cradle, and the past / Out of its grave, and make the present last / In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die, / Folded within their own eternity.

And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave.