Sick with other ills than these, Very sick with these, I lie, Weak with old hypocrisies, Pray to die and would not die. Sense, in dream-like terror caught, Stands stock-still and cannot swerve, While he pulls to bits who wrought Bone and artery and nerve. In a body soon to rot, Pain indrawn on every breath, I would rather stay than not; Pain is not so long as death. |