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