Sleep is a recreance to body, but when was mind asleep?
Even in a swoon it dreameth, though all be forgotten afterward:
The muscles seek relaxing, and the irritable nerves ask peace;
But life is a constant force, spirit an unquietable impetus:
The eye may wear out as a telescope, and the brain work slow as a machine,
But soul unwearied, and for ever, is capable of effort unimpaired.
I live, move, am conscious: what shall bar my being?
Where is the rude hand, to rend this tissue of existence?
Not thine, shadowy Death, what art thou but a phantom?
Not thine, foul Corruption, what art thou but a fear?