Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.
Jubal, the face said, I am thy loved Past, The soul that makes thee one from first to last. I am the angel of thy life and death, Thy outbreathed being drawing its last breath. Am I not thine alone, a dear dead bride Who blest thy lot above all men's beside?
In every parting there is an image of death.
When death comes it is never our tenderness that we repent from, but our severity.
When death, the great reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.
There comes a night when all too late The mind shall long to prompt the achieving hand, The eager thought behind closed portals stand, And the last wishes to the mute lips press Buried ere death in silent helplessness.