1.
Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain’s to die.
2.
How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
And lead a life of woe, but not forsake
His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
His future doom which is but to awake.
***
John Keats
More poems by John Keats
Tagged 18, 19, 19thcentury, about18century, about18thcentury, about19century, about19thcentury, aboutclassicalpoetry, aboutclassics, aboutdeath, aboutengland, aboutenglishpoems, aboutenglishpoets, aboutlyricism, aboutprejudice, aboutromantic, aboutromantism, aboutsex, aboutwoman, classical, classicalpoetry, Englishpoetry, Keats, lyric, protestantpoets, romantic, romantism, XIX 18thcentury, XVIII
