XXXIII
I am afraid to think about my death,
When it shall be, and whether in great pain
I shall rise up and battle for my breath,
Or calmly wait the bursting of my brain.
I am no coward who should seek in fear
A folklore solace or sweet Indian tales:
I know dead men are deaf and cannot hear
The singing of a thousand nightingales.
I know dead men are blind, and cannot see
The friend that shuts in horror their big eyes,
And they are witless—Oh, I'd rather be
A living mouse than dead in such a wise.
63
