But thou and I have shaken hands, Till growing winters lay me low; My paths are in the fields I know, And thine in undiscover'd lands. - Alfred Tennyson

Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

Come, my friends.
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
For my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset.
And though we are not now that strength which in old days moved Earth and Heaven.
That which we are, we are; one equal temper of heroic hearts
made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
to strive, to seek, to find,
and not to yield.

God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone.