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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 mused 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! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

- "Ode to a Nightingale",  John Keats