Madam, Life’s a piece in bloom death goes dogging everywhere: She’s the tenant of the room he’s the ruffian on the stair.
YOU MAY ALSO LIKE »
- It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll; I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.
- In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud: Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed.
- I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.
- Life is a series of diminishments. Each cessation of an activity either from choice or some other variety of infirmity is a death, a putting to final rest. Each loss, of friend or precious enemy, can be equated with the closing off of a room containing blocks of nerves and soon after the closing off the nerves atrophy and that part of oneself, in essence, drops away. The self is lightened, is held on earth by a gram less of mass and will.
- We are but tenants and shortly the great landlord will give us notice that our lease has expired.
- In the twentieth century, death terrifies men less than the absence of real life. All these dead, mechanized, specialized actions, stealing a little bit of life a thousand times a day until the mind and body are exhausted, until that death which is not the