Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still. For they must needs be present, that love and live in that which is omnipresent.
In this divine glass they see face to face; and their converse is free, as well as pure. This is comfort to friends, that though they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are, in the best sense, ever present, become immortal.
William Penn, More Fruits of Solitude
YOU ARE READING
Unsaid Feelings
Poetry« collection of my feelings » You are still my favourite yet most painful story to tell
