Though I be shut in darkness, and become insentient dust blown
idly here and there, I count oblivion a scant price to pay for
having once had held against my lip life's brimming cup of
hydromel and rue--for having once known woman's holy love and
a child's kiss, and for a little space been boon companion
to the Day and Night, Fed on the odors of the summer dawn,
and folded in the beauty of the stars. Dear Lord, though
I be changed to senseless clay, and serve the potter as
he turns his wheel, I thank Thee for the gracious gift of tears!
Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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