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.


facebook share button twitter share button google plus share button tumblr share button reddit share button email share button share on pinterest pinterest

Create a library and add your favorite stories. Get started by clicking the "Add" button.
Add On Death to your own personal library.

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

It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.