Welcome to this collection of writing about death, dying, loss and grief: a rich literary heritage that can help us to think and talk about these universal human experiences.
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What sudden pangs shot thro’ each aching heart,
When, Death, thy messenger dispatch’d his dart?
When beggars die, there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
Impatient, despairing yet loth to go (for beauty offers her lures, has her consolations), to pace the beach was impossible; contemplation was unendurable; the mirror was broken.
Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate; people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded; one was alone.
And shall my soul that lies within your hand
Remember nothing,
And you as well must die, beloved dust,
And all your beauty stand you in no stead;
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.
"Everybody knows it," said Ruby bitterly. "I know it ⎯ I've known it all summer, though I wouldn't give in.
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.
The Carriage held but just Ourselves ⎯
And Immortality.