Death and Mourning

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

Souls of poets dead and gone,

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,

And they are gone: aye, ages long ago

His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

Fourteen heart attacks and he had to die in my week. In MY week.

Depend upon it, Sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.

It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.

Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know,

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

We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped.

Non omnis moriar.

It ís the blight man was born for,

I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap in the dark.

In peace, children inter their parents; war violates the order of nature and causes parents to inter their children.

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.

He saw; but blasted with excess of light,

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Can storied urn or animated bust

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,