E who are nothing but self, and have no manner of being
⁠Save in the sense of self, still have no other delight
Like the relief that comes with the blessed oblivion freeing
⁠Self from self in the deep sleep of some dreamless night.

Losing alone is finding; the best of being is ceasing
⁠Now and again to be. Then at the end of this strife,
That which comes, if we will it or not, for our releasing,
⁠Is it eternal death, or is it infinite life?⁠