 | The poetical works (1906) |  |
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.
| The poetical works (1906) | |