Body is a home, a prison and a grave.

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down; Where a green grassy turf is all I crave, With here and there a violet bestrown, Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave; And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.

When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.

Three-fourths of philosophy & literature is the talk of people trying to convince themselves that they really like the cage they were tricked into entering.

This body is not a home but an inn, and that only briefly

They're making arrangements to bring her body home to Atlanta at the moment.