Yet in my hid soul must a voice reply Which knows not which may seem the viler gain, To sleep for ever or be born again, The blank repose or drear eternity. A solitary thing it were to die So late begotten and so early slain, With sweet life withered to a passing pain, Till nothing anywhere should still be I. Yet if for evermore I must convey These weary senses through an endless day And gaze on God with these exhausted eyes, I fear that howsoe'er the seraphs play My life shall not be theirs nor I as they, But homeless in the heart of Paradise. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LETTERS TO DEAD IMAGISTS by CARL SANDBURG THE SHIP OF RIO by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE CHARIOT by EMILY DICKINSON THE SEEDLING by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 12. ON RECOVERING FROM A FIT OF SICKNESS IN COUNTRY by MARK AKENSIDE TO SAN FRANCISCO by SAMUEL JOHN ALEXANDER |