On Death

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, 1820