Death (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠postponement are mortal enemies, and the earnest person knows death is the stronger.

Death (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠earnest without deception because the earnest thing is the thought of it: thinking yourself dead is earnestness, watching another die is mood.

Death (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠earnest not in the number of carriages at the funeral but in the thought: the observer who ponders death profoundly and forgets his own has turned it into a jest.

Death (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠life's final examination, equally hard for all, unlike school exams, because it adapts the test so precisely to each one's ability.

Earnestness (n.) does ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not waste time guessing riddles or admiring metaphors for death; it acts, and its terse cry, like death's, is: this very day.

Earnestness (n.) does ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not scowl: it is reconciled with life and knows how to fear death.

Earnestness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not proved by adversity, by commanding soldiers, writing many books, or dressing corpses for a living; it is in the inner being, not in the job.

Earnestness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠living each day as if it were the last and also the first of a long life, and choosing work that does not depend on whether one gets a lifetime to finish it.

Stillness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠as hard for the man of the world to find as it is for a camel to pass through a needle's eye, especially when he brings the noise with him.

Stillness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠needed most exactly when one is most powerfully moved, which is the thought most able to drive it away; flee to find it and you flee from it.

Stillness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠counterfeited by plans, ideas, daydreams and flights of fancy, instead of being reached through guilt and an honest accounting.

Stillness (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be had for nothing nor bought with gold, taken by force nor received in sleep; nothing can take it from you except yourself.

The Grave (n.) holds ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no recollection, not even of God, so the one who knew this recollected God while he lived.

The Grave (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠pictured by the weary as the one cool place, the one bed, the quilt of green grass the quiet man cannot throw off, where consciousness waits outside like a breeze in the trees.

The Grave (n.) makes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an equality in nothing: here the infant and the man who changed a world are equally idle, the rich as poor as the poor, and enemies a world apart lie side by side and tolerate each other.

Wonder (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠deepest when the seeker finds that he himself was what he sought — that he holds it all along and loses it through misunderstanding.

Wonder (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the sense immediacy has of God and the beginning of all deeper understanding; it is an ambiguous state comprising fear and bliss, so worship is fear and bliss at once.

Wonder (n.) must ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be learned from a child, and fear from a man — but the true wonder and true fear no man can teach another; legions of angels cannot instil them, only make one superstitious. They exist only when you are alone with the Omnipresent.