By rugged ways I reach towards a bourn
Which awes me not, and if I strive to slack
My usual pace, or for a change draw back,
There am I dragged with cruel unconcern;
But still, with death at hand, for life I yearn,
And seek fresh means my footsteps to reverse;
I know the better, I approve the worse,
Either from evil custom, or the stern
Fatality of woe. Yet, my brief time—
The wandering process of my wayward years
Alike in manhood as in early prime,—
My will (with which I war not now) in fact,
Sure Death, whose peaceful slumber dries all tears,
Make me not care the harm to counteract.