Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy.

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep: and yet a third of Life is passed in sleep

For a man who has done his natural duty, death is as natural as sleep.

Why won't they let me be? I just need to rest, that's all, to rest and sleep some, and maybe die a little.

Death, the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.