Dying, you tell me, dying?
The day drifts fast to night;
The craft by the headland lying
Lean to the headland light;
I hear the stout sea-cables sighing,—
And I die tonight....
The ghost of a breeze is blowing,
Failing and falling faint,
There’s none where I am going—
’Fore God, I’m bound there ain’t;
None knew more surely than I’m knowing
I’m no sculptured saint.
I’d hoped to meet him fighting,
Be dead before I fell,—
Death should be more exciting
Than this dull dipsey swell;
I’d always thought to end it fighting,—
But maybe it’s just as well.
Away with that dead grinning
Mimicking crucifix!
I’ll see out my own sinning,
Last cards shall take last tricks;
No whining end to my beginning,
My creed and His won’t mix.
Dying.... I know it: dying.
The sun is sunk from sight;
The stars alone are trying
To send me down some light;
The dead day-wind in the dark is sighing....
It is night....