I no longer fear the darkness;
it is simply the world in its night,
left in stain, but without light,
and shall not, with malice, enfold.
I no longer fear nightly dreams;
merely vain illusions of the mind,
whether they be pleasant or unkind,
these visions bear no weight to hold.
I have no need for sleep of death;
the solace of a soul left wanting,
‘ere none but ghosts lay in haunting,
this quietus is ill unkempt to taste.
I have no need for sullen pastures;
to die with my words left unspoken,
that I should be buried ‘ere unbroken,
my solitude has no such life to waste.
I cry to the wind, that it may hold me;
‘ere my end may come too soon of it,
and should I resign, or be forced to quit,
let my epitaph be written without fame.
I cry to the earth, that it may take me;
not in hallowed ground, for I am man,
and not with thunderous roar, as it can,
but simply in its fold, ‘ere sigh my name.