Death and Mourning

I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me.

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city, lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest.

The long mysterious Exodus of death.

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

Never to have lived is best, ancient writers say; Never to have drawn the breath of life, never to have looked into the eye of day; The second best’s a gay goodnight and quickly turn away.

There died a myriad, And of the best, among them, For an old bitch gone in the teeth, For a botched civilization. Charm, smiling at the good mouth, Quick eyes gone under earth’s lid, For two gross of broken statues, For a few thousand battered books.

Of that late death took all my heart for speech.

Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow.

Saint and Martyr rule from the tomb.

See in what peace a Christian can die. dying words to his stepson Lord Warwick

I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work … I want to achieve it through not dying.

“Who killed Cock Robin?” “I,” said the sparrow, “With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin.”

I am going to my Fathers, and tho’ with great difficulty I am got hither, yet now I do not repent me of all the trouble I have been at to arrive where I am. My sword, I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and skill to him that can get it. My marks and scars I carry with me, to be a witness for me, that I have fought his battles, who will now be my rewarder.

Someone spoke of your death, Heraclitus. It brought me

This is the way the world ends

Ash on an old man’s sleeve

The trumpet shall be heard on high,

I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost,

Oh may I join the choir invisible

I am disappointed by that stroke of death, which has eclipsed the gaiety of nations and impoverished the public stock of harmless pleasure.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I want death to find me planting my cabbages, but caring little for it, and even less about the imperfections of my garden.

Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored;