The world is too brutal for me—I am glad there is such a thing as the grave—I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death...

Darkling I listen; and, for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death,Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?---"On death

Love in a hut, with water and a crust,Is—Love, forgive us!—cinders, ashes, dust.Love in a palace is perhaps at lastMore grievous torment than a hermit's fast.

How astonishingly does the chance of leaving the world improve a sense of its natural beauties upon us. Like poor Falstaff, although I do not 'babble,' I think of green fields; I muse with the greatest affection on every flower I have know from my infancy - their shapes and colours are as new to me as if I had just created them with superhuman fancy.

Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.

Death is Life's high meed.