What the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.

The death of a beloved is an amputation.

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

The communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.

When death, the great reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.

...the mind is conscious, but conscious of nothing - I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: so the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.