They found me outside, staring at a field
Of long-horn cows, tears coursing down my face
And asked me why — I smiled, ‘My fate is sealed.’
But neither dawns, nor clouds are in that place....

Nor drooping hedges, cows or frost-nipped flowers,
Nor winding lanes, barred gates, nor Quinton Hill,
While soon I shall know naught of mortal powers,
I seek the air while I have lungs to fill,

And fill my senses up while they are there
With London streets, red wine and youth’s excess,
Let some seek grace, tranquillity or prayer —
I shun Death’s empty peace and seek Life’s mess.