|
For that thou hast been my friend;
for that thou has been the constant one
for that thou hast been a golden purse in poverty
for that thou hast loved the crippled singer,
will I take thee to a quiet place
where falling makes for no alarm,
where sinking is a quiet thing,
where pain is a journey's end,
where sunshine does not vie with Death for eminence,
but lies soft upon the dying as the quick,
and they are not apart;
I will give thee a soft place to lie, and water,
in the place of breath, and many things,
and there I will await with thee
thy passing.
Help me make thee calm,
for I am torn,
and I am scream
again.
And how ever shall I walk
away
again?
|