Name me no names for my disease, With uninforming breath; I tell you I am none of these, But homesick unto death.

Name me no names for my disease,
With uninforming breath;
I tell you I am none of these,
But homesick unto death —Homesick for hills that I had known,
For brooks that I had crossed,
...Before I met this flesh and bone
And followed and was lost… .And though they break my heart at last,
Yet name no name of ills.
Say only, "Here is where he passed,
Seeking again those hills.

Our fear of death is like our fear that summer will be short , but when we have had our fill of fruit, our swelter of heat, we said that we have had our day.

Life and death are balanced on the edge of a razor.

The idea of death, the fear of it, haunts the human animal like nothing else; it is a mainspring of human activity - designed largely to avoid the fatality of death, to overcome it by denying in some way that it is the final destiny of man.

People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad.