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 familiar 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.