I.
Can death be sleep,
When life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain's to die.
II.
How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
And lead a life of woe,
But not forsake His rugged path;
Nor dare he view alone His future doom which is but to awake.
[John Keats - December 30, 1816]
