And suppose, after all, that death does end all. Next to eternal joy,
next to being forever with those we love and those who have loved us,
next to that is to be wrapped in the dreamless drapery of eternal peace.
Next to eternal life is eternal death. Upon the shadowy shore of death
the sea of trouble casts no wave. Eyes that have been curtained by the
everlasting dark will never know again the touch of tears. Lips that
have been touched by the eternal silence will never utter another word
of grief. Hearts of dust do not break. The dead do not weep. And I had
rather think of those I have loved, and those I have lost, as having
returned to earth, as having become a part of the elemental wealth of
the the world. I would rather think of them as unconscious dust. I would
rather think of them as gurgling in the stream, floating in the cloud,
bursting into light upon the shores of worlds. I would rather think
of them thus than to have even a suspicion that their souls had been
clutched by an orthodox God.