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

The dream crossed twilight between birth and dying.

Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, every poem an epitaph.

...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.

My life is light, waiting for the death wind, Like a feather on the back of my hand.

Webster was much possessed by death / And saw the skull beneath the skin.