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

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest.

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.

I doubt that we have any right to pity the dead for their own sakes.

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

Man has here two and a half minutes—one to smile, one to sigh, and half a one to love; for in the midst of this minute he dies.

The dead are often just as living to us as the living are, only we cannot get them to believe it. They can come to us, but till we die we cannot go to them. To be dead is to be unable to understand that one is alive. 

To desire immortality for the individual is really the same as wanting to perpetuate an error forever.

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.

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

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

The play is the tragedy “Man,” And its hero the conqueror worm.