64443: Big Words

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