The children's voices, happy, fretful, fierce,
Come to him, as he lies, awaiting death;
Light laughter and light quarrelling he hears;
And envies them, that they, with easy breath,
Can romp and wrangle in the good old way
He, too, has romped and wrangled in his day.

He envies them that they've still breath to spend
On idle words, and hearts that to quick ire,
Or sudden mirth, can kindle, to no end
But the brief whim of some light-winged desire:
While he must husband all his hard-gained breath
For the last wrangling game he'll play with death.