Peace, peace! he is not dead,
he doth not sleep,
He hath awaken'd from the
dream
of life;
'Tis we, who lost in stormy
visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable
strife,
And in mad trance, strike with
our spirit's knife
Invulnerable nothings. We
decay
Like corpses in a charnel;
fear and grief
Convulse us and consume us day
by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.