Darkling I listen; and, for many a time	 I have been half in love with easeful Death,	 Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,	 To take into the air my quiet breath;	 Now more than ever seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad	 In such an ecstasy!
John Keats
death, nightingale