A brain that burns with its own heat,--
A heart that breaks at every beat,--
A wildering march of weary feet,
In search of what we may not meet,
Till found beneath a winding sheet;
In dreamless slumber long and sweet,
Which kindly comes to still all strife,
Is nature's fiction known as Life.

To be a thing that cannot die,--
A part of earth and air and sky,--
In cosmic arms of love to lie;
With shaded face and shrouded eye,
And marble lips that may not sigh
O'er shapes of beauty shining by,
Yet never yearn for bated breath,
Is nature's fact,--misnamed Death.