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Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.
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Sleep – Death without dying – living, but not life.
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Sleep is lovely, death is better still, not to have been born is of course the miracle.
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Sleep that no pain shall wake, Night that no morn shall break, Till joy shall overtake Her perfect peace.
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Sleep, those little slices of death; Oh how I loathe them.
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So die as though your funeral Ushered you through the doors that led Into a stately banquet hall Where heroes banqueted.
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So far the death toll has reached 14 and we can see some dead bodies within the building.
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So passes away the glory of this world. (‘Sic transit gloria mundi.’)
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So softly death succeeded life in her, She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.
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So that he seemed to depart not from life, but from one home to another. [Lat., Ut non ex vita, sed ex domo in domum videretur migrare.]
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So that I can be released as quickly as possible from this definite death.
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So we fall asleep in Jesus. We have played long enough at the games of life, and at last we feel the approach of death. We are tired out, and we lay our heads back on the bosom of Christ, and quietly fall asleep.
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So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness Pursued him still; and three nights after this, After the hour of eight, which he himself Foretold should be his last, full of repentance, Continual meditations, tears and sorrows, He gave his honors to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.
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Softly his fainting head he lay Upon his Maker’s breast; His Maker kiss’d his soul away, And laid his flesh to rest.
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Some die too young, some die too old; the precept sounds strange, but die at the right age.
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Some men are alive simply because it is against the law to kill them.
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Some men make a womanish complaint that it is a great misfortune to die before our time. I would ask what time? Is it that of Nature? But she, indeed, has lent us life, as we do a sum of money, only no certain day is fixed for payment. What reason then to complain if she demands it at pleasure, since it was on this condition that you received it.
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Sometimes death is a punishment; often a gist; it has been a favor to many. [Lat., Interim poena est mori, Sed saepe donum; pluribus veniae fuit.]
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Somewhere, in desolate, wind-swept space, In twilight land, in no man’s land, Two hurrying shapes met face to face And bade each other stand. ‘And who are you?’ cried one, a-gape, Shuddering in the glimmering light. ‘I know not,’ said the second shape, ‘I only died last night.’
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Soon as man, expert from time, has found the key of life, it opes the gates of death.
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