We go to the grave of a friend saying, "A man is dead"; but angels throng about him, saying, "A man is born."

Up, sluggard, and waste not life; in the grave will be sleeping enough.

We shall lie all alike in our graves.

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

And if there be no meeting past the grave, If all is darkness, silence, yet 'tis rest. Be not afraid, ye waiting hearts that weep, For still He giveth His beloved sleep, And if an endless sleep He will, 'tis best.

The impartial earth opens alike for the child of the pauper and the king.

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal. Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.