I warmed both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Life and death appear more certainly ours than whatsoever else; and yet hardly can that be called ours, which comes without our knowledge, and goes without it.
O what a thing is age! Death without death's quiet.
The happiest of pillows is not that which love first presses! it is that which death has frowned on and passed over.
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