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 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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Return to the John Keats Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; On Hearing The Bag-Pipe And Seeing "The Stranger" Played At Inverary

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