A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.

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The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.

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How he lies in his rights of a man!
Death has done all death can.
And absorbed in the new life he leads,
He recks not, he heeds
Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike
On his senses alike,
And are lost in the solemn and strange
Surprise of the change.

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O never star
Was lost; here
We all aspire to heaven and there is heaven
Above us.
If I stoop
Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud,
It is but for a time; I press God's lamp
Close to my breast; its splendor soon or late
Will pierce the gloom. I shall emerge some day.

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The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead.

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What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.

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Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives whom we call dead.

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And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler,
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

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There is a reaper whose name is Death,
And with his sickle keen
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

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There is no death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

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