Death is never an ending, death is a change; Death is beautiful, for death is strange; Death is one dream out of another flowing. - Conrad Aiken

So, talking with my first wife,
At the dark end of evening, when she leaned
And smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving webs
Of finest fire, revolving me in scarlet, — Calling to mind remote and small successions
Of countless other evenings ending so, — I smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead

A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me
Weaves to a babel of sound. Each cries a secret.
I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown.

All lovely things will have an ending,
All lovely things will fade and die,
And youth, that's now so bravely spending,
Will beg a penny by and by.