154 ONE THOUSAND FAMOUS THINGS
Spare Me the Whispering, Crowded Room
I ASK not that my bed of death
From bands of greedy heirs be free ;
For these besiege the latest breath
Of fortune's favoured sons, not me.
I ask not each kind soul to keep
Tearless, when of my death he hears,
Let those who will, if any, weep !
There are worse plagues on earth than tears.
I ask but that my death may find
The freedom to my life denied ;
Ask but the folly of mankind
Then, then at last, to quit my side.
Spare me the whispering, crowded room,
The friends who come, and gape, and go ;
The ceremonious air of gloom :
All which makes death a hideous show.
Bring none of these ; but let me be,
While all around in silence lies,
Moved to the window near, and see
Once more before my dying eyes,
Bathed in the sacred dews of morn
The wide aerial landscape spread,
The world which was ere I was born,
The world which lasts when I am dead ;
There let me gaze, till I become
In soul, with what I gaze on, wed I
To feel the universe my home ;
To have before my mind (instead
Of the sick room, the mortal strife,
The turmoil for a little breath)
The pure eternal course of life,
Not human cornbatings with death.
Thus feeling, gazing, might I grow
Composed, refreshed, ennobled, clear ;
Then willing let my spirit go
To work or wait elsewhere or here !
From A Wish, by Matthew Arnold
Better to Fight
IT is better to fight for the good than to rail at
the ill. Tewnyson