With all my senses perfect, not as some,
Tortured by pain and praying for release;
Nor like a man, who walking in the dark,
Comes to a brink upright, and steppeth over
Unhesitatingly, because he knows not.
Nor is my term much shortened, I shall die
Like aged Socrates, and with his hope
That the spirit doth not perish;—I mean not
A senseless immortality of fame:
That I shall have, but more I’ll have; I dream