Christopher Pearse Cranch (1813–1892)

OR endless sleep ’t will be,—and that is rest,

Freedom forever from life’s weary cares,—

Or else a life beyond the climbing stairs

And dizzy pinnacles of thought expressed

In symbols such as in our mortal breast

Are framed by time and space;—life that upbears

The soul by a law untried amid these snares

Of sense that make it a too willing guest.

So sleep or waking were a boon divine.

Yet why this inextinguishable thirst,

This hope, this faith that to existence cling?

Nay e’en the poor dark chrysalis some fine

Ethereal creature prisons, till it burst

Into the unknown air on golden wing.