This stringer of pretty conceits fails to convince us that he is very much in earnest in his wish to die. Speaking in the sincerity of prose, the Tuscan says, "Ogni cosa è meglio che la morte." He does not believe in the nothingness of life. In his worst troubles he still feels that all his faculties, all his senses, are made for pleasure. Death is to him the affair of a not cheerful religious ceremony—a cross borne before a black draped bier, and bells tolling dolefully.
I hear Death's step, I see him at my side,
I feel his bony fingers clasp me round;
I see the church's door is open wide,
And for the dead I hear the knell resound.
I see the cross and the black pall outspread;
Love, thou dost lead me whither lie the dead!
I see the cross, the winding-sheet I see;
Love, to the graveyard thou art leading me!