That solid chain of facts, is it to be snapped for ever?
How stout a show of figures, weakly summing to nonentity.
Or haply, Death, in the doublings of thy thought, shall seem continuous ending;
A dull eternal slumber, not an end abrupt.
O most futile chrysalis, wherefore dost thou sleep?
Dreamless, unconscious, never to awake,—what object in such slumber?
If thou art still to live, it may as well be wakefully as sleeping:
How grovelling must that spirit be, to need eternal sleep!
Or was indeed the toil of life so heavy and so long,
That nevermore can rest refresh thine overburdened soul?—