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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part III: Gods And False Gods: LXXVI
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THE SAME CONTINUED
 And who shall tell what ignominy death
 Has yet in store for us; what abject fears
 Even for the best of us; what fights for breath;
 What sobs, what supplications, what wild tears;
 What impotence of soul against despairs
 Which blot out reason?--The last trembling thought
 Of each poor brain, as dissolution nears,
 Is not of fair life lost, of Heaven bought
 And glory won. `Tis not the thought of grief;
 Of friends deserted; loving hearts which bleed;
 Wives, sisters, children who around us weep.
 But only a mad clutching for relief
 From physical pain, importunate Nature`s need;
 The search as for a womb where we may creep
 Back from the world, to hide,--perhaps to sleep.
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