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 Would we were sure of some oasis blest,

Where, the long journey over, we might rest;

O just to sleep a hundred thousand years,

Tired head, tired heart, within the earth's dark breast!

At the pale gate of birth an angel stands

Singing a lying song of lovely lands,

Sweet as a bird each worn and weary lie,—

The soul believes and takes the angel's hands.

Would that some voice that knew the whole deceit,

Far off in space the unborn soul might greet,

Hot-foot for earth, with lying fancies fired,

And thunder all the terror and the cheat.

Let us make haste, perchance for us to warn

The eager soul that clamours to be born,

To turn aside all that tremendous doom

Of fated generations still unborn.