The Love Sonnets of Proteus. Part III: Gods and False Gods: Lxxvi
THE SAME CONTINUED
And who shall tell what ignominy death
Has yet in store for us; what abject fears
Even for the best of us; what fights for breath;
What sobs, what supplications, what wild tears;
What impotence of soul against despairs
Which blot out reason?—The last trembling thought
Of each poor brain, as dissolution nears,
Is not of fair life lost, of Heaven bought
And glory won. ’Tis not the thought of grief;
Of friends deserted; loving hearts which bleed;
Wives, sisters, children who around us weep.
But only a mad clutching for relief
From physical pain, importunate Nature’s need;
The search as for a womb where we may creep
Back from the world, to hide,—perhaps to sleep.
