So late begotten and so early slain,
With sweet life withered to a passing pain
Till nothing anywhere should still be I.
Yet if for evermore I must convey
These weary senses thro’ an endless day
And gaze on God with these exhausted eyes,
I fear that howsoe’er the seraphs play
My life shall not be theirs nor I as they,
But homeless in the heart of Paradise.
F. W. H. Myers (1843-1901) (Immortality).