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Formerly, I thought that death was wearing out,--I stood ramparted about with so many healthy friends.

Whatsoever thwarts, or puts me out of my way, brings death into my mind.

Not childhood alone, but the young man till thirty, never feels practically that he is mortal.

The absolute power of this distant old master had touched my young spirit with but the point of its cold, cruel iron, and left me something to brood over after the play and in moments of repose.

Death, like birth, is a mystery of nature; the one a compounding of elements, the other a resolution into the same.

To the man who is penetrated with true principles, the shortest, the most common hint is a sufficient memorial to keep him free of sorrow and fear.

For death also is one piece of the business of life, and, here as elsewhere, it is enough to do well what comes to our hand.

Fear proceeds from the same things when absent which occasion grief when present.

As death, therefore, is hanging over our head every hour, how can a man ever be unshaken in soul if he fears it?

Again, in taking away our friends, death does not take them away utterly, but leaves behind a mocking, tragical, and soon intolerable residue, which must be hurriedly concealed.

The most rational cure after all for the inordinate fear of death is to set a just value on life.

It is the pang of parting, the unloosing our grasp, the breaking asunder some strong tie, the leaving some cherished purpose unfulfilled, that creates the repugnance to go

There was a time when we were not: this gives us no concern--why, then, should it trouble us that a time will come when we shall cease to be?

Perhaps the best cure for the fear of death is to reflect that life has a beginning as well as an end.