Yet when the need was great I swore: 

Death I have seen your face, you wore 

my father’s face and I saw him 

in the coffin and accused him 

of death: I said 

Dear Father, are you mad? 

And he who stays awake longest 

shall be deemed the wisest, 

for good fortune’s as hard to bear as ill: 

the blessings scatter like pollen in the August air: 

and though we know that pain is to sapphire 

as ruby to grief, that these wounds and tears 

may lead to odes and test our disbelief, 

still we cannot wish for more 

sorrow than shall be our common lot, 

whether we wish for it or not: 

and now I am dying in the daylight 

but recover at night 

to die again in the morrow