George Eliot

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

In every parting there is an image of death.

When death comes it is never our tenderness that we repent from, but our severity.

Death is the king of this world: ‘Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.

Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.