Not, how did he die, but how did he live? Not, what did he gain, but what did he give? These are the units to measure the worth Of a man as a man, regardless of his birth. Nor what was his church, nor what was his creed? But had he befriended those really in need? Was he ever ready, with words of good cheer, To bring back a smile, to banish a tear? Not what did the sketch in the newspaper say, But how many were sorry when he passed away? Anonymous

You know how little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears: Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End! The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

If I should go tomorrow, it would never be goodbye, for I have left my heart with you, so you don’t need to cry. The love that’s deep within me, shall reach you from the stars, you’ll feel it from the heavens and it will heal the scars