For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.
Our Euripides the human, With his droppings of warm tears, and his touchings of things common Till they rose to meet the spheres.
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.
And if God choose I shall but love thee better after death.
A woman's always younger than a man at equal years.
What we call Life is a condition of the soul. And the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement.