When death, the great Reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.
Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them.
In every parting there is an image of death.
Death was not to be a leap; it was to be a long descent under thickening shadows.
Death is the king of this world; ‘t is his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.
