Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.
Worldly faces never look so worldly as at a funeral.
It is a sad weakness in us, after all, that the thought of a person's death consecrates him or her anew to us. It is as if life were not sacred too, as if it were comparatively a small thing to fail in love and reverence to the brother or sister who has to climb the whole toilsome mountain with us. It seems as if all our tears and tenderness were due to the one who is spared that hard journey.
The tread Of coming footsteps cheats the midnight watcher Who holds her heart and waits to hear them pause, And hears them never pause, but pass and die.
Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.
Those only can thoroughly feel the meaning of death who know what is perfect love.
Death is the only physician, the shadow of his valley the only journeying that will cure us of age and the gathering fatigue of years.
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