After John Keats*

I have no fears that I may cease to be,
but long for the still silence of the grave.
Nothing remains in this world to long for;
nothing that I wish to keep or to save.
The best of youth, love and hope are vanished,
Driven away by time and loss and pain;
things that made the world a place to live in,
will never return in fullness again.
Just to breathe has no value in itself;
to wake to nothing does not make a day;
a walk to nowhere is not worth taking;
and nothing of value remains to say.
  Come death and be quick, take these blues from me;
  I’ve seen it all and no more wish to see.