On Death
The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1814
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.
How strange it is that man on earth should roam,And lead a life of woe, but not forsakeHis rugged path; nor dare he view aloneHis future doom, which is but to awake.