On Death

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 is that man on this earth should roam,
And lead a life, but not forsake
His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
His future doom which is but to awake.

-- John Keats --