The End
No freeman, saith the wise, thinks much on death:
No man with soul he dareth call his own
Liveth in dread lest there be no atone
In time to come for yesterday’s warm breath,
No more than he for such and hungereth
As falls to those who speed their souls a-groan;
Death may be King, to sit a tottering throne
And hale men hence—let cowards cringe to Death!
Who giveth, taketh; and the days go by:
No seed sowed we; let him who did come reap:
Sweet peace is ours—and everlastingly,—
A little sleep, a little slumber! Ay,
This much is known: there is for thee and me
A little folding of the hands to sleep.