I Don't Want To Die. But I

It Is A Comely Fashion To Be Glad; Joy Is The Grace We Say To God.

The Moon Is Bleached As White As Wool, And Just Dropping Under; Every Star Is Gone But Three, And They Hang Far Asunder,-- There's A Sea-ghost All In Gray, A Tall Shape Of Wonder!

Crowds Of Bees Are Giddy With Clover Crowds Of Grasshoppers Skip At Our Feet, Crowds Of Larks At Their Matins Hang Over, Thanking The Lord For A Life So Sweet.

Children Bring Their Own Love With Them When They Come.

People Newly Emerged From Obscurity Generally Launch Out Into Indiscriminate Display.