The white sail of his soul has rounded the promontory - death.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
The tortures of present death disturb him not, but the recollection of his fall, fills him with a holy sorrow.
The body dies, but the spirit that transcends it cannot be touched by death.
Death is the separation of soul from body.
There is no such thing as death. In nature nothing dies. From each sad remnant of decay, some forms of life arise so shall his life be taken away before he knoweth that he hath it.
Pale Death beats equally at the poor man's gate and at the palaces of kings.
To him who, though by no means near the end, is yet advancing, He is the way; to him who has put off all that is dead He is the life.
That the God-man died for his people, and that His death is their life, is an idea which was in some degree foreshadowed by the older mystical sacrifices.
When the last red man shall have perished from the earth and his memory among the white men shall have become a myth, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe. The white man will never be alone. Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless.
You may not know it, but at the far end of despair, there is a white clearing where one is almost happy.
The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other.