The death-change comes.
Death is another life. We bow our heads
At going out, we think, and read more

The death-change comes.
Death is another life. We bow our heads
At going out, we think, and enter straight
Another golden chamber of the king's
Larger than this we leave, and lovelier.
And then in shadowy glimpses, disconnect,
The story, flower-like, closes thus its leaves.
The will of God is all in all. He makes,
Destroys, remakes, for His own pleasure, all.

I'm not afraid of death; I just don't want to be there when it happens.

I'm not afraid of death; I just don't want to be there when it happens.

Go thou, deceased, to this earth which is a mother, and spacious
and kind. May her touch be soft read more

Go thou, deceased, to this earth which is a mother, and spacious
and kind. May her touch be soft like that of wool, or a young
woman, and may she protect thee from the depths of destruction.
Rise above him, O Earth, do not press painfully on him, give him
good things, give him consolation, as a mother covers her child
with her cloth, cover thou him.

If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character...Would you read more

If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character...Would you slow down? Or speed up?

A man does not die of love or his liver or even of old age; he dies of being a read more

A man does not die of love or his liver or even of old age; he dies of being a man.

He who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all this friends:
Faithful friends! It lies I read more

He who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all this friends:
Faithful friends! It lies I know
Pale and white and cold as snow;
And ye say, "Abdallah's dead!"
Weeping at the feet and head.
I can see your falling tears,
I can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile and whisper this:
I am not the thing you kiss.
Cease your tears and let it lie;
It was mine--it is not I.

Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its read more

Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.

The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

If man were immortal he could be perfectly sure of seeing the day when everything in which he had trusted read more

If man were immortal he could be perfectly sure of seeing the day when everything in which he had trusted should betray his trust, and, in short, of coming eventually to hopeless misery. He would break down, at last, as every good fortune, as every dynasty, as every civilization does. In place of this we have death.