The dead are not dead if we have loved them truly. In our own lives we give them immortality. Let us arise and take up the work they have left unfinished, and preserve the treasures they have won, and round out the circuit of their being to the fullness of an ampler orbit in our own.

When sorrow comes, let us accept it simply, as a part of life. Let the heart be open to pain; let it be stretched by it. All the evidence we have says that this is the better way. An open heart never grows bitter. Or if it does, it cannot remain so.

If I should die before the rest of you,
Break not a flower, nor inscribe a stone,
Nor, when I’m gone, speak in a Sunday voice,
But be the usual selves I have known,
Weep if you must:
Parting is hell,
But life goes on
So … sing as well!

The love of the human heart is the most real and the most
Beautiful of all the realities we know.
It is the richest gift of our manhood and womanhood.
It is the love that joins us together as lovers as husband and wife,
As father and mother, as parent and child,
and as friends and neighbors.

The love that once was born can not die
For it has become part of us, of our life,
Woven into the very texture of our being.
Each of us would wish to leave some part of ourselves,
So here and now we bear witness to the one we knew in life,
Who now in death bequeaths a subtle part, precious and beloved,
Which will be with us in truth and beauty,
In dignity and courage and love
To the end of our days.