Life is not sweet. One day it will be sweet
To shut our eyes and die:
Nor feel the wild-flowers blow, nor birds dart by
With flitting butterfly,
Nor grass grow long above our heads and feet,
Nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high,
Nor sigh that spring is fleet and summer fleet,
Nor mark the waxing wheat,
Nor know who sits in our accustomed seat.

Life is not good. One day it will be good
To die, then live again;
To sleep meanwhile: so not to feel the wane
Of shrunk leaves dropping in the wood,
Nor hear the foamy lashing of the main,
Nor mark the blackened bean-fields, nor where stood
Rich ranks of golden grain,
Only dead refuse stubble clothe the plain:
Asleep from risk, asleep from pain.

If I should die to-night
My friends would look upon my quiet face
Before they laid it in its resting place,
And deem that death had left it almost fair,
And, laying snow white flowers against my hair
Would smooth it down with thankful tenderness,
And fold my hands with lingering caress,
Poor hands—so empty and so cold to-night.

If I should die to-night,
My friends would call to mind with loving thought
Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said
Errands on which the willing feet had sped;
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words would all be laid aside;
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.

If I should die to-night,
Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully,
The eyes that chill me with averted glance
Would look upon me as of yore perchance,
As often in the old familiar way;
For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay?
So might I rest by all forgiven to-night.

Oh friends, I pray to-night,
Keep not your kisses for my cold dead brow.
The way is lonely, let me feel them now.
Think gently of me, I am travel-worn,
My faltering feet are pierced by many a thorn.
Forgive, O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead,
When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.