THINK not of me as facing Death,
Tattered, labouring for breath;
Rather think of one who strays
Dreaming dreams by perfumed ways.
Soon I may die, ah, true, 'tis true.
But look! the night is rich with blue
Of peaceful skies, and soft the breeze
Sings in the trembling poplar trees!
And slowly thro' the rustling grass
O'er woodland glade, I, dreaming, pass;
To-morrow? Death? Ah, what are these
But passing childish phantasies!
