Tennyson.
O’er each vain eye oblivious pinions wave,
And quench’d existence crouches in a grave.
What better name may Slumber’s bed become?
Night’s Sepulcher, the universal Home,
Where Weakness, Strength, Vice, Virtue, sunk supine,
Alike in naked helplessness recline;
Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath,
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death,
And shun, though day but dawns on ills increased,