To the Christian, whose life has been dark with brooding cares that would not lift themselves, and on whom chilling rains of sorrow have fallen at intervals through all his years, death is but the clearing-up shower; and just behind it are the songs of angels, and the serenity and glory of heaven.—Beecher.
That golden key that opes the palace of eternity.—Milton.
When death gives us a long lease of life, it takes as hostages all those whom we have loved.—Madame Necker.
Man makes a death which nature never made.—Young.
The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion—Death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet—of Immortality!—Dickens.
God's finger touched him, and he slept.—Tennyson.
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.—Bible.
Nature intends that, at fixed periods, men should succeed each other by the instrumentality of death. We shall never outwit Nature; we shall die as usual.—Fontenelle.
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.—Shakespeare.
Flesh is but the glass which holds the dust that measures all our time, which also shall be crumbled into dust.—George Herbert.