Out of a Dark Night
Death is more tranquil than the life of love,
More calm, more sure, and more unanguished.
O the path among the trees is far more tranquil to the dead
Than to these anxious hearts, uptroubled from their beds,
Who pace in pallid darkness on the leaves,
For no good reason—for no reason
But because their limbs will not lie still upon the sheet.
Their limbs will not lie still. O how I pity them.
Sad hearts—their marrow is a-quiver,
And they can not lie them down in tranquil sadness like the dead.