Hobbes thought of death with something like disgustAnd argued fiercely with that strict “you must”;
The long debate from day to day
Wound slowly on its pointless way
Though now the consequences are but dust.
I think of him struck speechless late at nightAs every nerve and limb rebelled in fright;
His brooding on the charnel worm,
As active as a common germ,
Was like a tooth which hurt him at each bite.
But worse was fury at the blank unbeingWhich stalked his spirit on the point of fleeing:
How could the creature muse upon
The moment when it was undone,
When all the world would turn without his seeing?
(Read the rest of the poem here)