Strike them; you will not hear a groan;
An icy torpor fills their veins;
They have no mortal cares, or pains,
Or sense, as we have; theirs is life,
If sleep be life, with nothing rife
Which we who love the setting sun
And crimson sky and crystal run,
And all things else that God has made —
We, who would moulder in the shade,
Can contemplate or understand