Protest

I long not now, a little while at least, For that serene interminable hour When I shall leave this barmecidal feast, With poppy for my everlasting flower. I long not now for that dim cubicle Of earth to which my lease will not expire, Where he who comes a tenant there may dwell Without a thought of famine, flood, or fire. Surely that house has quiet to bestow: Still tongue, spent pulse, heart pumped of its last throb, The fingers tense and tranquil in a row, The throat unwelled with any sigh or sob. But time to live, to love, bear pain and smile, Oh, we are given such a little while!