I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.

Is this dying? Is this all? Is this all that I feared when I prayed against a hard death? Oh, I can bear this! I can bear it!

Death renders all equal.

I was born without knowing why, I have lived without knowing why, and I am dying without either knowing why or how.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

Death keeps no calendar.

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

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.

Bereavement is a darkness impenetrable to the imagination of the unbereaved.

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

There is no man so fortunate that there shall not be by him when he is dying some who are pleased with what is going to happen.

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.