When I am safely laid away,Out of work and out of play,Sheltered by the kindly groundFrom the world of sight and sound,One or two of those I leaveWill remember me and grieve,Thinking how I made them gayBy the things I used to say;-- But the crown of their distressWill be my untidiness.
What a nuisance then will beAll that shall remain of me!Shelves of books I never read,Piles of bills, undocketed,Shaving-brushes, razors, strops,Bottles that have lost their tops,Boxes full of odds and ends,Letters from departed friends,Faded ties and broken bracesTucked away in secret places,Baggy trousers, ragged coats,Stacks of ancient lecture-notes,And that ghostliest of shows,Boots and shoes in horrid rows.Though they are of cheerful mind,My lovers, whom I leave behind,When they find these in my stead,Will be sorry I am dead.
They will grieve; but you, my dear,Who have never tasted fear,Brave companion of my youth,Free as air and true as truth,Do not let these weary thingsRob you of your junketings.
Burn the papers; sell the books;Clear out all the pestered nooks;Make a mighty funeral pyreFor the corpse of old desire,Till there shall remain of itNaught but ashes in a pit:And when you have done awayAll that is of yesterday,If you feel a thrill of pain,Master it, and start again.
This, at least, you have never doneSince you first beheld the sun:If you came upon your ownBlind to light and deaf to tone,Basking in the great releaseOf unconsciousness and peace,You would never, while you live,Shatter what you cannot give;-- Faithful to the watch you keep,You would never break their sleep.
Clouds will sail and winds will blowAs they did an age agoO'er us who lived in little townsUnderneath the Berkshire downs.When at heart you shall be sad,Pondering the joys we had,Listen and keep very still.If the lowing from the hillOr the tolling of a bellDo not serve to break the spell,Listen; you may be allowedTo hear my laughter from a cloud.
Take the good that life can giveFor the time you have to live.Friends of yours and friends of mineSurely will not let you pine.Sons and daughters will not spareMore than friendly love and care.If the Fates are kind to you,Some will stay to see you through;And the time will not be longTill the silence ends the song.
Sleep is God's own gift; and man,Snatching all the joys he can,Would not dare to give his voiceTo reverse his Maker's choice.Brief delight, eternal quiet,How change these for endless riotBroken by a single rest?Well you know that sleep is best.
We that have been heart to heartFall asleep, and drift apart.Will that overwhelming tideReunite us, or divide?Whence we come and whither goNone can tell us, but I knowPassion's self is often marredBy a kind of self-regard,And the torture of the cry"You are you, and I am I."While we live, the waking senseFeeds upon our difference,In our passion and our prideNot united, but allied.
We are severed by the sun,And by darkness are made one.
