Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions, or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply as sleep.
Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,
Nothing but bones,
The sad effect of sadder groans:
Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.
She sinks in death ⎯ th’ astonish’d soul, dismay’d,
Bursts thro’ the doors of life, and seeks more friendly skies.