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 mused 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! - Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod. — John Keats
