Ah! surely Nothing dies but Something mourns!

Let mourning stop when ones grief is fully expressed.

The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.

The dead sleep in their moonless night; my business is with the living.

To weep excessively for the dead is to affront the living.

We who are left how shall we look again Happily on the sun or feel the rain Without remembering how they who went Ungrudgingly and spent Their lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced.

When we lose one we love, our bitterest tears are called forth by the memory of hours when we loved not enough.

What we call mourning for our dead is perhaps not so much grief at not being able to call them back as it is grief at not being able to want to do so.

Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last.