Such a caring for death, an awakening that keeps vigil over death, a conscience that looks death in the face, is another name for freedom.
“I ran upon life unknowing, without or science or art,
I found the first pretty maiden but she was a harlot at heart;
I wandered about the woodland after the melting of snow,
‘Here is the first pretty snowdrop’ — and it was the dung of a crow!”
Alfred, Lord Tennyson