For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast.
Lord Byron
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep: and yet a third of Life is passed in sleep
sleep life men death weep deathanddying thing
I live, but live to die: and, living, see nothing to make death hateful, save an innate clinging, a loathsome and yet all invincible instinct of life, which I abhor, as I despise myself, yet cannot overcome - and so I live. Would I had never lived!
life death
The love where Death has set his seal, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow.
age death
death
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