Death and Mourning

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!”

“Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Tragedy wrought to its uttermost. Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages, And all the drop-scenes drop at once Upon a hundred thousand stages, It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.

Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way The ground opens up and envelops me Each time I go out to walk the dog.

Yonder stands your orphan with his gun Crying like a fire in the sun Look out, the saints are comin’ through And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.

It’s not that I’m afraid to die. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.

The horror! The horror!

This is the death of air.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

It ís the blight man was born for,

Here lies W. C. Fields. I would rather be living in Philadelphia.

Out of the dark we came, into the dark we go … Life is nothing. Life is all. It is the hand with which we hold off death. It is the glow-worm that shines in the night-time and is black in the morning; it is the white breath of the oxen in winter; it is the little shadow that runs across the grass and loses itself at sunset.

Non omnis moriar.

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

And they are gone: aye, ages long ago

Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

Comes the blind Fury with th’ abhorrèd shears,

Whenever I prepare for a journey I prepare as though for death. Should I never return, all is in order.

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

I am going to seek a great perhaps … Bring down the curtain, the farce is played out.

Under the wide and starry sky