All death in Nature is birth; and precisely in dying the sublimation of life appears most conspicuous.  There is no death-bringing principle in Nature, for Nature is only life, throughout.  Not death kills, but the more living life, which, hidden behind the old, begins and unfolds itself.  Death and birth are only the struggle of life with itself to manifest itself in ever more transfigured form, more like itself.

And my death—­can that be anything different from this?—­I, who am not a mere representation and copy of life, but who bear within myself the original, the alone true and essential life!  It is not a possible thought that Nature should annihilate a life which did not spring from her—­Nature, which exists only for my sake, not I for hers.

But even my natural life, even this mere representation of an inward invisible life to mortal eyes, Nature cannot annihilate; otherwise she must be able to annihilate herself—­she who exists only for me and for my sake, and who ceases to exist, if I am not.  Even because she puts me to death she must quicken me anew.  It can be only my higher life, unfolding itself in her, before which my present life disappears; and that which mortals call death is the visible appearing of a second vivification.  Did no rational being, who has once beheld its light, perish from the earth, there would be no reason to expect a new heaven and a new earth.  The only possible aim of Nature, that of representing and maintaining Reason, would have been already fulfilled here below, and her circle would be complete.  But the act by which she puts to death a free, self-subsisting being, is her solemn—­to all Reason apparent—­transcending of that act, and of the entire sphere which she thereby closes.  The apparition of death is the conductor by which my spiritual eye passes over to the new life of myself, and of a Nature for me.

Every one of my kind who passes from earthly connections, and who cannot, to my spirit, seem annihilated, because he is one of my kind, draws my thought over with him.  He still is, and to him belongs a place.

While we, here below, sorrow for him with such sorrow as would be felt, if possible, in the dull kingdom of unconsciousness, when a human being withdraws himself from thence to the light of earth’s sun—­while we so mourn, on yonder side there is joy because a man is born into their world; as we citizens of earth receive with joy our own.  When I, some time, shall follow them, there will be for me only joy; for sorrow remains behind, in the sphere which I quit.

It vanishes and sinks before my gaze—­the world which I so lately admired.  With all the fulness of life, of order, of increase, which I behold in it, it is but the curtain by which an infinitely more perfect world is concealed from me.  It is but the germ out of which that infinitely more perfect shall unfold itself.  My faith enters behind this curtain, and warms and quickens this germ.  It sees nothing definite, but expects more than it can grasp here below, than it will ever be able to grasp in time.