"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:

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 firmlier 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;

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.