Extract from a poem by Henry Scott Holland

Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away to the next room I am I and you are you, whatever we were to each other that we still are. Speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? Life means all that it ever meant, it is the same as it ever was. All, is well.