Certain to find rest there, whate’er betide:
An angel holding in his sovereign hand
Sleep, and the guerdon of ecstatic dreams,
That smooths the couch and shuts the weary eyes:
The prisoner’s key; the leper’s healing streams;
The beggar’s purse; the exile’s fatherland;
The open portico to unknown skies.
Baudelaire, Fleurs du Mal.
The man hath reached the goal and won the prize,