The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity.
Death is no more than passing from one room into another.
Nothing can happen more beautiful than death.
A well-spent day brings happy sleep.
No one can confidently say that he will still be living tomorrow.
Death is no more than passing from one room into another. But there's a difference for me, you know. Because in that other room I shall be able to see.
He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man.
Dream as if you'll live forever. Live as if you'll die today.
When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.
Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation. For they are us; our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life.
As a well spent day brings happy sleep, so life well used brings happy death.
Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.
To be idle is a short road to death and to be diligent is a way of life; foolish people are idle, wise people are diligent.
I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
To die: - to sleep: No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.
He thought it happier to be dead, To die for Beauty, than live for bread
When the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
We say that the hour of death cannot be forecast, but when we say this we imagine that hour as placed in an obscure and distant future. It never occurs to us that it has any connection with the day already begun or that death could arrive this same afternoon, this afternoon which is so certain and which has every hour filled in advance.
Love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone.
All say, ‘how hard it is that we have to die’ -- a strange complaint to come from the mouths of those who have had to live.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of trauma, I will fear no concussion.
I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived.
Live each day as if it were your last for some day it will be.
Life is nasty, brutish, and short. Death is easy.
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