Percy Bysshe Shelley

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep, He hath awaken’d from the dream of life; ‘Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance, strike with our spirit’s knife Invulnerable nothings. We decay Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief Convulse us and consume us day by day, And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay