Clara: One Classy Lady
What is dying? I am standing on the sea shore. A ship sails to the morning breeze and starts for the ocean. She is an object of beauty and I stand watching her till at last she fades on the horizon, and someone at my side says, “She is gone.” Gone where? Gone from my sight, that is all; she is just as large in the masts, hull and spars as she was when I saw her, and just as able to bear her load of living freight to its destination. The diminished size and total loss of sight is in me, not in her; and just at the moment when someone at my side says, “She is gone.” there are others who are watching her coming, and other voices take up a glad shout, “There she comes” —-and that is dying.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses of the world.
Whole years of joy glide unperceived away, while sorrow counts the minutes as they pass.
There are some griefs so loud they could bring down the sky, and there are griefs so still none knows how deep they lie, endured, never expended. There are old griefs so proud they never speak a word; they never can be mended. And these nourish the will and keep it iron-hard.
It isn’t for the moment you are struck that you need courage but for the long uphill climb back into sanity and faith and security.