E who are nothing but self, and have no manner of being
Save in the sense of self, still have no other delight
Like the relief that comes with the blessed oblivion freeing
Self from self in the deep sleep of some dreamless night.
Losing alone is finding; the best of being is ceasing
Now and again to be. Then at the end of this strife,
That which comes, if we will it or not, for our releasing,
Is it eternal death, or is it infinite life?