on death

can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
and scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
the transient pleasures of a vision seem,
and yet we think the greatest pain's to die.

how strange it is that a 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