I've whined of coming death, but now, no more! <br />It's weak and most ungracious. For, say I, <br />Though still a boy if years are counted, why! <br />I've lived those years from roof to cellar-floor, <br />And feel, like grey-beards touching their fourscore, <br />Ready, so soon as the need comes, to die: <br />And I'm satisfied. <br />For winning confidence in those quiet days <br />Of peace, poised sickly on the precipice side <br />Of Lliwedd crag by Snowdon, and in war <br />Finding it familiar with me than before; <br />Winning a faith in the wisdom of God's ways <br />That once I lost, finding it justified <br />Even in this chaos; winning love that stays <br />And warms the heart like wine at Easter-tide; <br />Having earlier tried <br />False loves in plenty; oh! my cup of praise <br />Brims over, and I know I'll feel small sorrow, <br />Confess no sins and make no weak delays <br />If death ends all and I must die to-morrow.' <br />But on the firestep, waiting to attack, <br />He cursed, prayed, sweated, wished the proud words back.<br /><br />Robert Graves<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/big-words-2/
