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I am dying from the treatment of too many physicians.

quote by Alexander the Great
Added by Lucian Velea
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Dying

I'm Dying, Dying to wake up without you, without you in my head again
I'm Dying, Dying to forget about you, that you ever lived
There's a shade come over this heart that's coping with laying down to rest
I'm Dying to live without you again
I'm Dying, Dying to find a distraction, get you away from me
I'm Dying, Dying to reach a conclusion, so that the world can see
It's the same old story of love and glory that broke before it bent
I'm Dying to live without you again
The first time you left I said goodbye
Now there's not a prayer that can survive
Dying, Dying to die just to come back so we can meet again
Dying, Dying to say what I always should have said
It's a strange emotion this but there's still hope in this
As long as there's a breath...
I'm Dying and I can't live without you again
It's a strange emotion this but there's still hope in this
As long as there's a breath...
I'm Dying and I can't live without you
I'm Dying and I can't live without you again

song performed by Five For Fighting
Added by Lucian Velea
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Apple Of Sodom

I found the center of fruit is late
It is the center of truth today
I cut the apple in two
Oh, I pray it isnt true
I found the center of fruit is late
It is the center of truth today
I cut the apple in two
Oh, I pray it isnt true
Ive got something you can never eat
Ive got something you can never eat
Ive got something you can never eat
Ive got something you can never eat
Ive drained my heart, I burn my soul
Ive trained the core to stop my growth
I pray to die in space
To cover me in snow
To cover me in snow
Cover me in snow
Im dying, I hope youre dying too
Im dying, I hope youre dying too
Im dying, I hope youre dying too
Im dying, I hope youre dying too
Im dying, I hope youre dying too
Im dying, I hope youre dying too
Im dying, I hope youre dying too
Im dying, I hope youre dying too
Take this from me (hate me, hate me)
Take this from me (hate me, hate me)
One, two, three, he is a speed bump mannequin
One, two, three, he cant move to stand still
One, two, three, he is a speed bump mannequin
One, two, three, he cant move to stand still
Ive got something you can never eat
Ive got something you can never eat
Ive got something you can never eat
Ive got something you can never eat...

song performed by Marilyn Manson
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Borough. Letter VII: Professions--Physic

NEXT, to a graver tribe we turn our view,
And yield the praise to worth and science due,
But this with serious words and sober style,
For these are friends with whom we seldom smile.
Helpers of men they're call'd, and we confess
Theirs the deep study, theirs the lucky guess;
We own that numbers join with care and skill,
A temperate judgment, a devoted will:
Men who suppress their feelings, but who feel
The painful symptoms they delight to heal;
Patient in all their trials, they sustain
The starts of passion, the reproach of pain;
With hearts affected, but with looks serene,
Intent they wait through all the solemn scene;
Glad if a hope should rise from nature's strife,
To aid their skill and save the lingering life;
But this must virtue's generous effort be,
And spring from nobler motives than a fee:
To the Physician of the Soul, and these,
Turn the distress'd for safety, hope, and ease.
But as physicians of that nobler kind
Have their warm zealots, and their sectaries blind;
So among these for knowledge most renowned,
Are dreamers strange, and stubborn bigots found:
Some, too, admitted to this honourd name,
Have, without learning, found a way to fame;
And some by learning--young physicians write,
To set their merit in the fairest light;
With them a treatise in a bait that draws
Approving voices--'tis to gain applause,
And to exalt them in the public view,
More than a life of worthy toil could do.
When 'tis proposed to make the man renown'd,
In every age, convenient doubts abound;
Convenient themes in every period start,
Which he may treat with all the pomp of art;
Curious conjectures he may always make,
And either side of dubious questions take;
He may a system broach, or, if he please,
Start new opinions of an old disease:
Or may some simple in the woodland trace,
And be its patron, till it runs its race;
As rustic damsels from their woods are won,
And live in splendour till their race be run;
It weighs not much on what their powers be shown,
When all his purpose is to make them known.
To show the world what long experience gains,
Requires not courage, though it calls for pains;
But at life's outset to inform mankind
Is a bold effort of a valiant mind.

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Dying

Dying
Youve seen the crippled dance
Give me your money baby, nows your chance
Your lies like cyanide
I am so dumb
Just beam me up
Ive had it all forever
Ive had enough
Remember, you promised me...
Im dying, Im dying please
I want to, I need to be...
Under your skin
Our love is quicksand, so easy to drown
They steal the gravity out from moving ground
Remember, you promised me...
Im dying, Im dying please
I want to I need to be...
Under your skin
And now I understand
You leave with everything
You leave with everything I am
In the rain
And I now I know that love is dead
You come to bury me
Theres nothing left here to pretend..
Remember you promised me...
Im dying, Im dying please
I want to, I need to be...
Under your skin
Im dying Im dying please
Im dying Im dying please
Im dying Im dying please
Under your skin
Under your skin

song performed by Hole
Added by Lucian Velea
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Canto the Second

I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.

II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.

IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.

V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Canto the First

I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

III
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

IV
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

V
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Child Is Dying

for every tree you cut down,
a child is dying.
for every barrel of oil that
you drill and spill,
a child is dying.
for every coal mine you
rape the earth with,
a child is dying.
for all the nuclear waste
you cannot dispose of,
a child is dying.

for every country you bomb,
a child is dying.
for every chemical you spray
on your vegetables,
a child is dying.

for every river you dam & drain,
a child is dying.
for every oil field you own,
a child is dying.

for every animal you drive
to the brink of extinction,
a child is dying.
for every smokestack, every sweatshop,
and every synthetic thought,
a child is dying.

for every tree you cut down....

poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Feel Like....

I feel like dying dying
Dying without you,
To leave this body,
To take a new.

It's not that I
Hate this night;
It's not that I
Have lost my right..

But I'm dying dying
Dying without you
To leave this present
To embrace a new.

None will mourn here
No heart-break;
No swan-song,
Not one inch's shake..

But, I feel like dying
Dying without you
To yield this robe,
To wear a new.

The secs of hour
Gapes me now....
Time pulls I know,
Inevitably how;

Still I feel like,
Dying, dying without you,
To take another life,
To get the new! !

poem by Nilakshi Das
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Thus far

I took treatment;
The body-ache was gone; with it the winter too.
I took treatment;
The allergy was gone; with it the spring too.
I took treatment;
The acnes were gone; with it the summer too.
I took treatment;
The gastric was gone; with it the autumn too.

Sometimes I got fortunes.
Sometimes I was spared.
Sometimes I was rescued.
Sometimes I got miseries reduced.
I ascribed all to my God I believe.

With time I have grown thus far.
With faith I have stood thus far.
15.04.2007I

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Treatment-Resistant Depression

I have been treated for depression
but my symptoms have as yet to improve me.
I think,
I may have have treatment-resistant depression.

Taking an antidepressant or going through
all of that psychological counseling.
What (psychotherapy) puts me through,
I am ill at ease
then comes some latter I date your depression.

Unlike most people
whom for not most if not all are such people.
This treatment for treatment-resistant depression.
When standard treatment was never enough.

Flakes of snow leave white claws and dark marks.
Before I was born
and the world knew dark matter,
I was left such like you to ponder it all in depression.

They may not help much at all,
to improver your fears of depression.
And why are your symptoms.
May turns back into June.
Will summer improve only to keep it like winter comes back.

From mild to severe
and may require more help
as summer becomes fall leads back to winter.
Where have all the snow cones gone?
Up the hill
down the slope where I lead you back up into depression.

poem by Is It Poetry
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If bodies of their own heal

I

Two scores of ripe years ere, remember I,
At shower, shaving mirror, shaping hair,
Bending elbow when turns annoying nigh,
I wonder when, how my hurt hushed in there
Unknown to me, as seasons oft set in
Early or late, till one day forced are we
To tune into the change though not keen;
More than the dull pain, hurt irritates me.

The medic I consult, cool as was I,
But more sure, call it a tennis elbow,
Me in protest, not having played the game,

Laugh it off a little respectfully,
The doc unmoved as e'er, letting me know:
Oh, just the same, it is no more than name.

II

Prescribes he a pain pacifying drug,
Not kind to drugging messengers of pain,
Being a believer in roots, I shrug,
The pain, not being un-seasonal rain,
Persists gaining a slow intensity,
The devilish doc feels vindicated,
Looking kind, yet stern-eyed, he nods at me;
Oh, counsel my own leaves me defeated!

O'er-ruled, a rebel on knees, and elbowed,
Bowed to submission, loosening left sleeve,
I look as if explanation was owed,

He looks up a stern verdict to give:
There's no escape, man reaps whatso is sowed,
Whatso the doc decides you shall receive.

III

Nursing help called in, I'm led like a cow
To in-house slaughter house, or so I thought,
The wise me cursing the rebellious me now,
I follow in worse apprehensions caught,
O for ultra thermal waves— half an hour;
Feeling relieved thence: it could have been worse,
But rather than relieving pain, if e'er,
The mute machine taxes my time and purse.

The pain persisting still, it was my time

[...] Read more

poem by Aniruddha Pathak
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Metamorphoses: Book The Seventh

THE Argonauts now stemm'd the foaming tide,
And to Arcadia's shore their course apply'd;
Where sightless Phineus spent his age in grief,
But Boreas' sons engage in his relief;
And those unwelcome guests, the odious race
Of Harpyes, from the monarch's table chase.
With Jason then they greater toils sustain,
And Phasis' slimy banks at last they gain,
Here boldly they demand the golden prize
Of Scythia's king, who sternly thus replies:
That mighty labours they must first o'ercome,
Or sail their Argo thence unfreighted home.
The Story of Meanwhile Medea, seiz'd with fierce desire,
Medea and By reason strives to quench the raging fire;
Jason But strives in vain!- Some God (she said)
withstands,
And reason's baffl'd council countermands.
What unseen Pow'r does this disorder move?
'Tis love,- at least 'tis like, what men call love.
Else wherefore shou'd the king's commands appear
To me too hard?- But so indeed they are.
Why shou'd I for a stranger fear, lest he
Shou'd perish, whom I did but lately see?
His death, or safety, what are they to me?
Wretch, from thy virgin-breast this flame expel,
And soon- Oh cou'd I, all wou'd then be well!
But love, resistless love, my soul invades;
Discretion this, affection that perswades.
I see the right, and I approve it too,
Condemn the wrong- and yet the wrong pursue.
Why, royal maid, shou'dst thou desire to wed
A wanderer, and court a foreign bed?
Thy native land, tho' barb'rous, can present
A bridegroom worth a royal bride's content:
And whether this advent'rer lives, or dies,
In Fate, and Fortune's fickle pleasure lies.
Yet may be live! for to the Pow'rs above,
A virgin, led by no impulse of love,
So just a suit may, for the guiltless, move.
Whom wou'd not Jason's valour, youth and blood
Invite? or cou'd these merits be withstood,
At least his charming person must encline
The hardest heart- I'm sure 'tis so with mine!
Yet, if I help him not, the flaming breath
Of bulls, and earth-born foes, must be his death.
Or, should he through these dangers force his way,
At last he must be made the dragon's prey.
If no remorse for such distress I feel,
I am a tigress, and my breast is steel.
Why do I scruple then to see him slain,

[...] Read more

poem by Ovid
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Blow, Bugle, Blow

THE splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Princess (part 3)

Morn in the wake of the morning star
Came furrowing all the orient into gold.
We rose, and each by other drest with care
Descended to the court that lay three parts
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were touched
Above the darkness from their native East.

There while we stood beside the fount, and watched
Or seemed to watch the dancing bubble, approached
Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep,
Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyes
The circled Iris of a night of tears;
'And fly,' she cried, 'O fly, while yet you may!
My mother knows:' and when I asked her 'how,'
'My fault' she wept 'my fault! and yet not mine;
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me.
My mother, 'tis her wont from night to night
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side.
She says the Princess should have been the Head,
Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms;
And so it was agreed when first they came;
But Lady Psyche was the right hand now,
And the left, or not, or seldom used;
Hers more than half the students, all the love.
And so last night she fell to canvass you:
~Her~ countrywomen! she did not envy her.
"Who ever saw such wild barbarians?
Girls?--more like men!" and at these words the snake,
My secret, seemed to stir within my breast;
And oh, Sirs, could I help it, but my cheek
Began to burn and burn, and her lynx eye
To fix and make me hotter, till she laughed:
"O marvellously modest maiden, you!
Men! girls, like men! why, if they had been men
You need not set your thoughts in rubric thus
For wholesale comment." Pardon, I am shamed
That I must needs repeat for my excuse
What looks so little graceful: "men" (for still
My mother went revolving on the word)
"And so they are,--very like men indeed--
And with that woman closeted for hours!"
Then came these dreadful words out one by one,
"Why--these--~are~--men:" I shuddered: "and you know it."
"O ask me nothing," I said: "And she knows too,
And she conceals it." So my mother clutched
The truth at once, but with no word from me;
And now thus early risen she goes to inform
The Princess: Lady Psyche will be crushed;
But you may yet be saved, and therefore fly;
But heal me with your pardon ere you go.'

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Splendor Falls

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes dying, dying, dying.

O love they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field, or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dying Inside

Terrible thing
It was a terrible thing to see you're dying
It was a terrible thing
It was a terrible thing to see you're dying inside
To see you're dying
Won't you come out
I'll play the game with day
Won't you speak out
I'll say the things you say
The lady loved her gold
The lady lost her soul

It was a terrible thing
It was a terrible thing to see you're dying
It was a terrible thing
It was a terrible thing to see you're dying inside
To see you're dying
Do you remember the things we used to do
Do you remember the way it was for you
The lady loved her gold
The lady lost her soul

It was a terrible thing
It was a terrible thing to see you're dying
It was a terrible thing
It was a terrible thing to see you're dying inside
To see you die
La...

song performed by Cranberries from Wake Up And Smell The Coffee
Added by Lucian Velea
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Come As You Are

Would it be wrong of me
To interrupt your little fun
You always run away
If Ive got something serious to say
But you belong to me
If you belong to anyone
And when I call you, you must come
Come as you are
It isnt every day
I have to ask you to come out
Ive never tied your hands
Just dont like to make demands
Ive never needed you
The way I need to have you now
So when I call you, you must come
Come as you are
Dont you change a thing
Dont make a move
Only come as you are right now
Think Im dying for your love
This is everything I ever need
So wont you come as you are right now
Before I die without your love
Forever, crying for your love
And maybe someday
You could be dying for my love
Just remember Ill always belong to you
If I knew if I belong to anyone
And if you need me I will come
So if I call you, you must come
Come as you are
Dont you change a thing
Dont make a move
Only come as you are right now
I think Im dying for your love (Im dying)
This is everything I ever need
So wont you come as you are right now
Before I die without your love
I think Im dying for your love
Cant you see me crying for your love
Dying for your love
Crying for your love
Dying for your love
Cant you feel my love
Dont you want my love
Feels like Im dying without your love

song performed by Todd Rundgren
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Ship of Death

I

Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion.

The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.

And it is time to go, to bid farewell
to one's own self, and find an exit
from the fallen self.

II

Have you built your ship of death, O have you?
O build your ship of death, for you will need it.

The grim frost is at hand, when the apples will fall
thick, almost thundrous, on the hardened earth.

And death is on the air like a smell of ashes!
Ah! can't you smell it?
And in the bruised body, the frightened soul
finds itself shrinking, wincing from the cold
that blows upon it through the orifices.

III

And can a man his own quietus make
with a bare bodkin?

With daggers, bodkins, bullets, man can make
a bruise or break of exit for his life;
but is that a quietus, O tell me, is it quietus?

Surely not so! for how could murder, even self-murder
ever a quietus make?

IV

O let us talk of quiet that we know,
that we can know, the deep and lovely quiet
of a strong heart at peace!

How can we this, our own quietus, make?

V

Build then the ship of death, for you must take
the longest journey, to oblivion.

[...] Read more

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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The Parish Register - Part III: Burials

THERE was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time
When humble Christians died with views sublime;
When all were ready for their faith to bleed,
But few to write or wrangle for their creed;
When lively Faith upheld the sinking heart,
And friends, assured to meet, prepared to part;
When Love felt hope, when Sorrow grew serene,
And all was comfort in the death-bed scene.
Alas! when now the gloomy king they wait,
'Tis weakness yielding to resistless fate;
Like wretched men upon the ocean cast,
They labour hard and struggle to the last;
'Hope against hope,' and wildly gaze around
In search of help that never shall be found:
Nor, till the last strong billow stops the breath,
Will they believe them in the jaws of Death!
When these my Records I reflecting read,
And find what ills these numerous births succeed;
What powerful griefs these nuptial ties attend;
With what regret these painful journeys end;
When from the cradle to the grave I look,
Mine I conceive a melancholy book.
Where now is perfect resignation seen?
Alas! it is not on the village-green: -
I've seldom known, though I have often read,
Of happy peasants on their dying-bed;
Whose looks proclaimed that sunshine of the breast,
That more than hope, that Heaven itself express'd.
What I behold are feverish fits of strife,
'Twixt fears of dying and desire of life:
Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure;
Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure;
At best a sad submission to the doom,
Which, turning from the danger, lets it come.
Sick lies the man, bewilder'd, lost, afraid,
His spirits vanquish'd, and his strength decay'd;
No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend -
'Call then a priest, and fit him for his end.'
A priest is call'd; 'tis now, alas! too late,
Death enters with him at the cottage-gate;
Or time allow'd--he goes, assured to find
The self-commending, all-confiding mind;
And sighs to hear, what we may justly call
Death's common-place, the train of thought in all.
'True I'm a sinner,' feebly he begins,
'But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins:'
(Such cool confession no past crimes excite!
Such claim on Mercy seems the sinner's right!)
'I know mankind are frail, that God is just,
And pardons those who in his Mercy trust;

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poem by George Crabbe
Added by Poetry Lover
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