I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

What is death? A scary mask. Take it off—see, it doesn’t bite.

The life of the dead consists in the recollection cherished of them by the living.

Every individual existence goes out in a lonely spasm of helpless agony.

In dealing with the dead, if we treat them as if they were entirely dead, that would show a want of affection and should not be done; or, if we treat them as if they were entirely alive, that would show a want of wisdom and should not be done.

Can we not live without pleasure, who cannot but with pleasure die?

Under the wide and starry sky, / Dig the grave and let me lie.

Those from whom we were born have long since departed, and those with whom we grew up exist only in memory. We, too, through the approach of death, become, as it were, trees growing on the sandy bank of a river.

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

It is noble to die before doing anything that deserves death.

It is not my design to drink or sleep; my design is to make what haste I can to be gone.

The call of death is a call of love. Death can be sweet if we answer it in the affirmative, if we accept it as one of the great eternal forms of life and transformation.