Think not of me as one whom death could cheat
Of what men hold on Earth supremely good;
Save for the miracle of fatherhood,
I have known all that makes a life complete:
Summits where poetry lies at music's feet;
Nature's brown breast within the autumn wood;
The uttermost bounty of love's plenitude;
Hours when the God in me and Godhead meet.
But think of me as one solely content
To wait on Earth a desolate while alone,
Nor hasten forth where dying footsteps went, —
That he might spend his brain and blood and bone
In the great cause, and, having fully spent,
Leap to the arms for evermore his own.