When you had played with life a space <br />And made it drink and lust and sing, <br />You flung it back into God's face <br />And thought you did a noble thing. <br />'Lo, I have lived and loved,' you said, <br />'And sung to fools too dull to hear me. <br />Now for a cool and grassy bed <br />With violets in blossom near me.' <br />Well, rest is good for weary feet, <br />Although they ran for no great prize; <br />And violets are very sweet, <br />Although their roots are in your eyes. <br />But hark to what the earthworms say <br />Who share with you your muddy haven: <br />'The fight was on - you ran away. <br />You are a coward and a craven.' <br />'The rug is ruined where you bled; <br />It was a dirty way to die! <br />To put a bullet through your head <br />And make a silly woman cry! <br />You could not vex the merry stars <br />Nor make them heed you, dead or living. <br />Not all your puny anger mars <br />God's irresistible forgiving. <br />'Yes, God forgives and men forget, <br />And you're forgiven and forgotten. <br />You may be gaily sinning yet <br />And quick and fresh instead of rotten. <br />And when you think of love and fame <br />And all that might have come to pass, <br />Then don't you feel a little shame? <br />And don't you think you were an ass?'<br /><br />Alfred Joyce Kilmer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-a-young-poet-who-killed-himself-2/
