We who are nothing but self, and have no manner of being Save in the sense of self, still have no other delight Like the relief that comes with the blessed oblivion freeing Self from self in the deep sleep of some dreamless night. Losing alone is finding; the best of being is ceasing Now and again to be. Then at the end of this strife, That which comes, if we will it or not, for our releasing, Is it eternal death, or is it infinite life? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RIDE NOT TOO FAST WITH BEAUTY by ELSIE TWINING ABBOTT ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 14. TO THE HON. CHARLES TOWNSHEND - FROM THE COUNTRY by MARK AKENSIDE A LITTLE PARABLE by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH I WOULD BE THE SUN by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS |