TELL me no more, I must not fear to die; Ye waste your words; not death, but life I dread: Oh, to be numbered with the tranquil dead! For I am tired; I do but crave to lie Under the turf; only for rest I cry; And yet ye bid me turn my weary head, And on the scroll that hangs beside my bed Read of another life, a home on high. 'Tis strange to think I once had power to cope With those who hate the Christ, and scorn His word; Sore were my wounds; my triumphs, oh, how few! But now, at last, my prayer for sleep is heard: Forgive me, Lord! Thy promises are true, And yet I have not strength enough to hope. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MARCH by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE SNOW-STORM by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS THE TEMPER (1) by GEORGE HERBERT FESTE'S SONG (2), FR. TWELFTH NIGHT by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE THE SOLITUDE OF SPACE by FLORA CECILE ALLISON TO DR. PRIESTLEY. DEC. 29, 1792 by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |