a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin! Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourne
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action."

This first the poet does: he draws aside the veil which hides the
working of men's hearts, and lets us see their hidden life. But he does
more. Not merely does he afford us knowledge, he imparts life. For we
know feeling only by participating in the feeling; and the poet has the
art not merely to describe the experiences of men but so to describe
them that for the moment we share them, and so truly know them by the
only process by which they can be known. Who, for instance, can read
Thomas Hood's "The Bridge of Sighs" and not, as he reads, stand by the
despairing one as she waits a moment upon the bridge just ready to take
her last leap out of the cruelty of this world into, let us hope, the
mercy of a more merciful world beyond?

"Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Homeless by night.

"The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurled--
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world.

"In she plunged boldly--
No mat