SAY, hast thou never been compelled to lie
Wakeful in Night's impenetrable deep,
Counting the laggard moments that so creep
Reluctant onward; till, with voiceless cry
Enduring, thou hadst willing been to fly
From Life itself, and in oblivion steep
Thy tortured senses? To such longed-for sleep
Death is a way; and dost thou fear to die?
Nay, were it this, just this, and naught beside—
Merely the calm that we have anguished for,
The wayfarer might still be glad to hide
From grief and suffering!—but how much more
Is Death—Life's servitor and friend—the guide
That safely ferries us from shore to shore!