The hand of death grapples the throat of life at the moment when he sees most clearly its infinite possibilities.

Decay paralyses his hand when he knows best how to use his tools.

It is accomplished wretchedness.
I quote his outburst.

It is in the soul of thousands who have no hope of a life to come.
"But," sayest thou--( and I marvel, I repeat, To find thee trip on such a mere word) "what Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die: Sappho survives, because we sing her songs, And AEschylus, because we read his plays!" Why, if they live still, let them come and take Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup, Speak in my place! "Thou diest while I survive ?"-- Say rather that my fate is deadlier still, In this, that every day my sense of joy Grows more acute, my soul (intensified By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen; While every day my hairs fall more and more, My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase-- The horror quickening still from year to year, The consummation coming past escape When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy-- When all my works wherein I prove my worth, Being present still to mock me in men's mouths, Alive still, in the praise of such as thou, I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man, The man who loved his life so overmuch, Sleep in my urn.

It is so horrible I dare at times imagine to my need Some future state revealed to us by Zeus, Unlimited in capability For joy, as this is in desire of joy, -- To seek which the joy-hunger forces us: That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait On purpose to make prized the life at large-- Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death, We burst there as the worm into the fly.
Who, while a worm still, wants his wings.