When I was young I had a care <br />Lest I should cheat me of my share <br />Of that which makes it sweet to strive <br />For life, and dying still survive, <br />A name in sunshine written higher <br />Than lark or poet dare aspire. <br /> <br />But I grew weary doing well. <br />Besides, 'twas sweeter in that hell, <br />Down with the loud banditti people <br />Who robbed the orchards, climbed the steeple <br />For jackdaws' eyes and made the cock <br />Crow ere 'twas daylight on the clock. <br />I was so very bad the neighbours <br />Spoke of me at their daily labours. <br /> <br />And now I'm drinking wine in France, <br />The helpless child of circumstance. <br />To-morrow will be loud with war, <br />How will I be accounted for? <br /> <br />It is too late now to retrieve <br />A fallen dream, too late to grieve <br />A name unmade, but not too late <br />To thank the gods for what is great; <br />A keen-edged sword, a soldier's heart, <br />Is greater than a poet's art. <br />And greater than a poet's fame <br />A little grave that has no name.<br /><br />Francis Ledwidge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/soliloquy/