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

There never is absolute birth nor complete death, in the strict sense, consisting in the separation of the soul from the body. What we call births are developments and growths, while what we call deaths are envelopments and diminutions.

The only evidence, so far as I know, about another life is, first, that we have no evidence; and, secondly, that we are rather sorry that we have not, and wish we had.

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.

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

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

Death keeps no calendar.

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

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

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

I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap in the dark.

I think it makes small difference to the dead if they are buried in the tokens of luxury. All this is an empty glorification left for those who live.

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