I Don't Want To Die. But I

Youth! Youth! How Buoyant Are Thy Hopes! They Turn, Like Marigolds, Toward The Sunny Side.

O Woman! Thou Wert Fashioned To Beguile: So Have All Sages Said, All Poets Sung.

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.

I Am Glad To Think I Am Not Bound To Make The World Go Right, But Only To Discover And To Do, With Cheerful Heart, The Work That God Appoints.

Such A Slender Moon, Going Up And Up, Waxing So Fast From Night To Night, And Swelling Like An Orange Flower-bud, Bright, Fated, Methought, To Round As To A Golden Cup, And Hold To My Two Lips Life's Best Of Wine.