Prate not to me of suicide, Faint heart in battle, not for pride I say Endure, but that such end denied Makes welcomer yet the death that’s to be died.

Love is not love that wounded bleeds And bleeding sullies slow. Come death within my hands and I Unto my love will go.

There are moments of despair that come sometimes, when night sets in and a white fog presses against the windows. Then our house changes its shape, rears up and becomes a place of despair. Then fear and rage run simply–and the thought of Death as a friend. This is the simplest of thoughts, that Death must come when we call, although he is a god.

But one wants the idea of Death, you know, as something large and unknowable, something that allows a person to stretch himself out. Especially one wants it if one is tired. Or perhaps what one wants is simply a release from sensation, from all consciousness for ever….

If I lie down on my bed I must be here,But if I lie down in my grave I may be elsewhere.