Of course, as a historian the dead and their stories are always around me, but those are mostly people long gone whose lives we remember as part of the great creative patchwork of history. In the last two years I have thought a lot also about the process of old age and dying, and have brought back the death of my younger sister many years ago.  When she died the text that meant most to me came from some lines by one William Drummond, which I found as a scrap in an old commonplace book,

‘Days are not to be esteemed after the number of them, but after the goodness.  More compass maketh not a sphere more complete, but as round is a little as a large ring.’

I have also long loved Henry Vaughan’s famous poem that begins ‘They are all gone into the world of light! And I alone sit lingering here.’ The poem comes to a climax with a wonderful image of the resurrection,

He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest, may know
  At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair well or grove he sings in now
  That is to him unknown.

My Aunt Felicity would have enjoyed this image.  She was a tiny little person, who I used to stay with as a child, when she would take me round country churches and teach me needlework and how to recognise flowers.  She had a deep faith and great courage, with which she faced constant pain towards the end of her life.  She chose this little rhyme by Robert Graves for her funeral service,

With you for mast, and sail, and flag
  And anchor never known to drag,
Death’s narrow but oppressive sea
  Looks not unnavigable to me.

As with so much of Graves’ poetry the simplicity belies the difficult content.  Graves, famous as a war poet, did not think death was easy, but I hope I too can say this rhyme when my time comes.