The maid that loves goes out to sea upon a shattered plank, and puts her trust in miracles for safety.
This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
Prayer ardent opens heaven.
He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.
All men think that all men are mortal but themselves.