Death is real happiness. In it, a true rest rests. By it, one draws closer to God.
Twilight
closed the wearying Cyclops’ eye
What vision spread in the silent darkness?
Spasm-covered skin stretched over the
lightless
Damp cubicle, capped by the looming sky.
Could happy song then quench nocturnal sigh?
Nay, Waves waft eternal in the vastness
Of grains of dreams, the eyes are colorless
In your long deep sleep—the heaven so nigh.
But, wailing now ceases in Lethean slumber
In cold, December night miseries asleep.
Forget
the day or night constant sighing
For yours, is sweet repose; not found in
number?
Adieu, adieu the faith in you have kept
A happiness smiles not found in paining.
