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

I’m doomed to die, right? Why should I care if I go to Hades either with gout in my leg or a runner’s grace? Plenty of people will carry me there.

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

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

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

Under the wide and starry sky, / Dig the grave and let me lie.

Death renders all equal.

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

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.

Every individual existence goes out in a lonely spasm of helpless agony.

I looked and there was a pale green horse! Its rider’s name was Death, and Hades followed with him.

Life is a farce, and should not end with a mourning scene.

Men have written in the most convincing manner to prove that death is no evil, and this opinion has been confirmed on a thousand celebrated occasions by the weakest of men as well as by heroes. Even so I doubt whether any sensible person has ever believed it, and the trouble men take to convince others as well as themselves that they do shows clearly that it is no easy undertaking.