IT is the bell of death I hear, Which tells me my own time is near, When I must join those quiet souls Where nothing lives but worms and moles; And not come through the grass again, Like worms and moles, for breath or rain; Yet let none weep when my life's through, For I myself have wept for few. The only things that knew me well Were children, dogs, and girls that fell; I bought poor children cakes and sweets, Dogs heard my voice and danced the streets; And, gentle to a fallen lass, I made her weep for what she was. Good men and women know not me, Nor love nor hate the mystery. |