Nothing ever truly dies. The universe wastes nothing, everything is simply transformed.
If Nature denies eternity to beings, it follows that their destruction is one of her laws. Now, once we observe that destruction is so useful to her that she absolutely cannot dispense with it from this moment onward the idea of annihilation which we attach to death ceases to be real what we call the end of the living animal is no longer a true finish, but a simple transformation, a transmutation of matter. According to these irrefutable principles, death is hence no more than a change of form, an imperceptible passage from one existence into another.
Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
When you hear that my body has ceased to exist, please do not feel sad. Just look deeply and see that my life and work continue in so many friends, so many young people, in their own ways and through their work. I will continue in everyone and everything I have ever touched. I have nothinng to fear and nothing to regret.
Everything that gets born dies.
Death is a mighty mediator. There all the flames of rage are extinguished, hatred is appeased, and angelic pity, like a weeping sister, bends with gentle and close embrace over the funeral urn.
Death, which hateth and destroyeth a man, is believed; God, which hath made him and loves him, is always deferred.
Do not ... hope wholly to reason away your troubles; do not feed them with attention, and they will die imperceptibly away. Fix your thoughts upon your business, fill your intervals with company, and sunshine will again break in upon your mind.
Always be thou prepared, and so live that death may never find thee unprepared.
I often wish for the end of the wretched remnant of my life; and that wish is a rational one; but then the innate principle of self-preservation, wisely implanted in our natures, for obvious purposes, opposes that wish, and makes us endeavour to spin out our thread as long as we can, however decayed and rotten it may be.
All I desire for my own burial, is not to be buried alive; but how or where, I think, must be entirely indifferent to every rational creature.
Lately, I've become accustomed to the way The ground opens up and envelopes me Each time I go out to walk the dog.
As the films of clay are removed from our eyes, Death loses the false aspect of the spectre, and we fall at last into its arms as a wearied child upon the bosom of its mother.
Death is the only monastery; the tomb is the only cell, and the grave that adjoins the convent is the bitterest mock of its futility.
To how many is the death of the beloved the parent of faith!
To mourn deeply for the death of another loosens from myself the petty desire for, and the animal adherence to life. We have gained the end of the philosopher, and view without shrinking the coffin and the pall.
Man only of all earthly creatures, asks, Can the dead die forever? - and the instinct that urges the question is God's answer to man, for no instinct is given in vain.
It's death, that's what I'm suffering from. The systematic encroachment of the big D.
There is a remedy for everything but death; who, in spite of our teeth, will take us in his clutches.
My sole defense against the natural horror which death inspires is to love beyond it.
Oh well, no matter what happens, there's always death.
Death has a hundred hands and walks by a thousand ways.
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