Deep Stone Crypt Quotes

The hill was mainly composed of the soft stone material known as gypsum which possessed two qualities: first, it would slowly dissolve in water and was thus a poor foundation for any large building. Second, when heated, after giving off steam, it could easily be ground into the powder from which white plaster was made. For that reason, men had been burying into the hill of Montmartre for centuries to extract the gypsum. So famous had these quarrying's become, that now, even across the ocean, white plaster had come to be known as Plaster of Paris. When the builders of Sacre Coeur began their task therefore, they found that the underlying terrain was not only soft, but so honeycombed with mineshafts and tunnels that had the great building been placed directly upon it, the entire hill would have surely collapsed, leaving the church in a stupendous sinkhole. The solution had been very French, a combination of elegant logic and vast ambition: 83 gigantic shafts were dug, each over 100 feet deep filled with concrete. Upon these mighty columns, like a huge box, almost as deep as the church above, the crypt was constructed as a platform. This work alone had taken almost a decade, and by the end of it, even those who hated the project would remark with rye amusement: 'Montmartre isn't holding up the church, it's the church that's holding up Montmartre'.

Is that what your father told you?” Tobias clicked his tongue. “Your family is full of liars, Samkiel. Too bad you won’t be around to figure that out.” Liam squared his shoulders as he glared at Tobias. “It does not matter who or what you are. It will take an army to detain me.” Tobias’s laugh was cold and downright deadly. He stretched his arms out to the sides, squeezing his hands into fists. His talons dug into his palms, drawing fresh blood. He spoke in the ancient tongue of Ig’Morruthens. Blood welled between his fingers and dripped onto the floor. It sizzled, dark smoke swirling as it made contact with the stones. “Well, it’s a good thing, Samkiel,” he said, his voice deep and menacing, “that I have bodies to spare.” The mausoleum shook as the stone absorbed his blood. Liam and I watched in horror as the lids slowly slid off the coffins. Hollow wails and moans filled the crypt, the ground busting open beneath us as the dead rose.

Death's Embrace - A Soliloquy by Stewart Stafford In sincere tongue, declare with heart: Art thou but a mimic, shadow of the art, Or standest thou bold, architect of the new, Crafting the morrow in thy vision true? Unburden me from this oppressive weight, I cannot bear this overwhelming force. Despair hath found its pinnacle in me, And I must peer into realms unknown, If cherished sight fails me at mine end, I shall renounce all chimeras of the light. But fall not tamely from Life’s precipice, Death presses hard on thy frail fingers, Hold on, cry, resist thy certain ruin! Trouble's court, may yet bestow thee favour. Dreams are but fancies giv’n swift wings, That soar beyond the bounds of reason; In minds that dare to fly unshackled, The dreamer becometh the vision. Love is both a journey and destination: Long and painful upon the path, Unsought, yet blissful when it is found. From dust conjur’d — to stars, we’re turned. Beware the self-righteous man, Whose pride does unseat the very world Before he sees his error. Piteous wounds of thine own hand, 'Tis easy to judge from afar Without walking with aching bones. If there be cause that yet remaineth here, It showeth their harshness and injustice To themselves and their loving others. Mourn their release with mercy and thanks Transient whispers guide along chance’s way. Weep not for those who have found Death’s embrace, They lament for us who tarry on old shores. Death but ushers a veiled dawn, not life's twilight, A metamorphosis of guise, not of the spirit's light. Though we must part for now, we shall be one again. For love’s wrought by flesh, yet holds not its chain. Time-worn age stoops; penitents depart. Pawned as one in vigilant trance But what a folly 'tis to mark the signs of our undoing; Memory's comet trails bequeathed to loved ones left, Contagion's rehearsal on the ephemeral stage. With luck, a stand-in may go on in thy stead. Ere thy final bow becomes unavoidable. With tyrant Death prowling public ways, I turn from mankind hence to seek delight. A chamber ceiling seen upon morn's wake, I say: “The sun does rise? Let's haste away!” Upon waking, a stone tomb's ashen lid, I would perchance say: “Alas!..mine eyes do grow heavy.” A life well-liv’d is not weigh’d by earthly goods Or the number of mourners at the grave. Numerous, deep laugh lines tell the tale, On the face of the person lying still in the crypt, Reveals threescore years and twelve’s true worth. Death is not the villain of the piece; It is the next phase of life, in strange attire. I accept my fate with grace and courage. For I have liv’d and lov’d and dream’d enough. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

For a moment Eddard Stark was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. This was his place, here in the north. He looked at the stone figures all around them, breathed deep in the chill silence of the crypt. He could feel the eyes of the dead. They were all listening, he knew. And winter was coming.