And all our pulses quieted?
When hate or love can kill nor thrill,—
When we are done with life, and dead?
So we be haunted night nor day
By any sin that we have sinned,
What matter where we dream away
The ages?—In the isles of Ind,
In Tybee, Cuba, or Cathay,
Or in some world of winter wind?
It may be I would wish to sleep