Your death and my death are mainly of importance to ourselves. The black plumes will be stripped off our hearses within the hour; tears will dry, hurt hearts close again, our graves grow level with the church-yard, and although we are away, the world wags on. It does not miss us; and those who are near us, when the first strangeness of vacancy wears off, will not miss us much either.

It is a characteristic of pleasure that we can never recognize it to be pleasure till after it is gone.

We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.

To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.

Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.

A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.