Sleep Is A Death, O Make Me

But Man Is A Noble Animal, Splendid In Ashes, And Pompous In The Grave, Solemnizing Nativities And Deaths With Equal Lustre, Nor Omitting Ceremonies Of Bravery, In The Infamy Of His Nature. Life Is A Pure Flame, And We Live By An Invisible Sun Within Us.

What Then Is The Wisdom Of The Times Called Old? Is It The Wisdom Of Gray Hairs? No. It Is The Wisdom Of The Cradle.

He That Unburied Lies Wants Not His Hearse, For Unto Him A Tomb's The Universe.

I Am Not So Much Afraid Of Death, As Ashamed Thereof, 'tis The Very Disgrace And Ignominy Of Our Natures.

That Miracles Have Been, I Do Believe; That They May Yet Be Wrought By The Living, I Do Not Deny: But Have No Confidence In Those Which Are Fathered On The Dead.