THE SAME CONTINUED <br />And who shall tell what ignominy death <br />Has yet in store for us; what abject fears <br />Even for the best of us; what fights for breath; <br />What sobs, what supplications, what wild tears; <br />What impotence of soul against despairs <br />Which blot out reason?--The last trembling thought <br />Of each poor brain, as dissolution nears, <br />Is not of fair life lost, of Heaven bought <br />And glory won. 'Tis not the thought of grief; <br />Of friends deserted; loving hearts which bleed; <br />Wives, sisters, children who around us weep. <br />But only a mad clutching for relief <br />From physical pain, importunate Nature's need; <br />The search as for a womb where we may creep <br />Back from the world, to hide,--perhaps to sleep.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-love-sonnets-of-proteus-part-iii-gods-and-false-gods-lxxvi/
