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