He thought it happier to be dead,
To die for Beauty, than live for bread.
But learn that to die is a debt we must all pay.
Out of the strain of the Doing,
Into the peace of the Done;
Out in the thirst of Pursuing,
Into the rapture of Won.
Out of grey mist into brightness,
Out of pale'dusk into Dawn—
Out of all wrong into Tightness,
We from these fields shall be gone.
"Nay," say the saints, "Not gone but come,
Into eternity's Harvest Home."
W. M. L. Fay—Poem in Sunday at Home.
May, 1910.
Sit the comedy out, and that done,
When the Play's at an end, let the Curtain fall
down.
Thomas Flatman—The Whim.
| seealso = (See also Rabelais)
| topic = Death
| page =
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 5
| text = <poem>Young Never-Grow-Old, with your heart of gold
And the dear boy's face upon you;
It is hard to tell, though we know it well,
That the grass is growing upon you.
Alice Fleming—Spurn Kop.
A dying man can do nothing easy.
La montagne est passee; nous irons mieux.
The mountain is passed; now we shall get on better. Frederick the Great. Said to be his last words. </poem>
Why fear death? It is the most beautiful
adventure in life.
Charles Frohman. Last words before he
sank in the wreck of the Lusitania, torpedoed by the Germans, May 7, 1915. So
reported by Rita Joliet.
| seealso = (See also Barrle)
| topic = Death
| page =
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 9
| text = <poem>Drawing near her death, she sent most pious
thoughts as harbingers to heaven; and her soul
saw a glimpse of happiness through the chinks
of her sicknesse broken body.
Fuller—The Holy and the Profane State.
Bk. I. Ch. II.
Had [Christ] the death of death to death
Not given death by dying:
The gates of life had never been
To mortals open lying.
On the tombstone of Rev. Fyqe (?) in the
churchyard of Castle-Camps, Cambridgeshire.
To die is landing on some silent shore,
Where billows never break nor tempests roar;
Ere well we feel the friendly stroke 'tis o'er.
Sir Samuel Garth—The Dispensary. Canto III. L. 225.
The prince who kept the world in awe,
The judge whose dictate fix'd the law;
The rich, the poor, the great, the small,
Are levell'd; death confounds 'em all.
Gay—Fables. Pt. II. Fable 16.
Dead as a door nail.
Gay—New Song of New Similes. Langland—
Piers Ploughman. II. L. 183. (1362)
William of Palerne—Romance (About
1350) II Henry IV. Act V. Sc. 3. Deaf
as a door nail. Rabelais—III. 34. Trans,
by Urquhart.
Where the brass knocker, wrapt in flannel band,
Forbids the thunder of the footman's hand,
The' upholder, rueful harbinger of death,
Waits with impatience for the dying breath.
Gay—Trima.
| place = Bk. II. L. 467.
For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.
Genesis. III. 19.
What if thou be saint or sinner,
Crooked gray-beard, straight beginner,—
Empty paunch, or jolly dinner,
When Death thee shall call.
All alike are rich and richer,
King with crown, and cross-legged stitcher,
When the grave hides all.
R. W. Gilder—Drinking Song.
None who e'er knew her can believe her dead;
Though, should she die, they deem it well might
be
Her spirit took its everlasting flight
In summer's glory, by the sunset sea,
That onward through the Golden Gate is fled.
Ah, where that bright soul is cannot be night.
R. W. Gilder—"H. H."
| seealso = (See also Aldrich, Hood)
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 18
| text = Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Gray—Elegy. St. 11.
He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:
The living throne, the sapphire blaze,
Where angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.
Gray—Progress of Poesy. III. 2. L. 99.
Fling but a stone, the giant dies.
Matthew Green—The Spleen. L. 93.
When life is woe,
And hope is dumb,
The World says, "Go!"
The Grave says, "Come!"
