Death’s Waylaying not the sharpest
Of the thefts of Time —
There Marauds a sorer Robber,
Silence — is his name —
No Assault, nor any Menace
Doth betoken him.
But from Life’s consummate Cluster —
He supplants the Balm.
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.
Death is terrible, but still more terrible is the feeling that you might live for ever and never die.[Смерть страшна, но еще страшнее было бы сознание, что будешь жить вечно и никогда не умрешь.]
Death is a Fisherman, the world we see
His Fish-pond is, and we the Fishes be:
His Net some general Sickness; howe’er he
Is not so kind as other Fishers be;
For if they take one of the smaller Fry,
They throw him in again, he shall not die:
But Death is sure to kill all he can get,
And all is Fish with him that comes to Net.
Death is a commingling of Eternity with Time; in the death of a good man, Eternity is seen looking through Time.
Both marriage and death ought to be welcome: the one promises happiness, doubtless the other assures it.