Τρίτη, 26 Ιουλίου 2011

ON DEATH, John Keats


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.

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