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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536533" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Requiescit</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I cannot tell his story. He was one<br>To whom the riddle of our human life<br>Was strangely put, and who, because of that<br>And that he could not read it, died. But a short hour<br>Before he passed, the woman who stood by,<br>Weeping as once she had wept to see him born,<br>Tired with her watching looked into his face<br>And saw the heavy eyelids dropping down<br>Loaded with sleep. And she, for all her tears,<br>Bent for the hundredth time to ease his bed.<br>And, as she almost touched him, smoothing out<br>The ruffled pillows, close into her ear<br>He whispered, never lifting up his eyes:<br>``No matter now. I shall be soon asleep.''<br>And then, as if he would pursue the thought<br>A little way as once he loved to do,<br>And yet too weak to catch it, he went on:<br>``And what a trouble it has been to keep<br>This pillow smooth! And in a little while<br>It will not want another touch; and then--<br>This aching head of mine will have done with thought.<br>Thought! Thought!'' But loud the aged woman sobbed,<br>``Poor soul, poor gentleman.'' So they remained<br>For a brief space, the goodwife standing there<br>Knotting her wrinkled hands and he hard by<br>Upon the bed and breathing heavily.<br>For he seemed sunk again in that dull trance<br>Through which men often pass away from life,<br>When death, as the lion does, has shaken his prey<br>And he lies numb and dumb and powerless.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She listened. He was telling slowly over<br>The names of those whom he had loved in youth.<br>Many were strange to her; and then there came<br>One she knew well. She started at the sound<br>She had not heard for years, and bending near<br>Heard him repeat it twice. She whispered hoarsely:<br>``Have you no word for her?''--yet stopped again<br>Because his eyes were open. Doubtingly<br>They wandered to her own and seemed to say<br>``Who, and what is it that you ask?'' And she<br>Spoke it again. He seemed to catch the name<br>And said it after her, but like a child<br>Which knows not what it speaks; and afterwards:<br>``Ah! Bridget, I have quite forgot that story,<br>And now, in half an hour, it is not long,<br>I shall have clean forgotten the name too.''<br>She cried, ``Oh Sir, it is a life too late.<br>Would God you had forgot it long ago!''</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The tears stole slowly down her withered cheeks<br>And fell upon his hands. She did not move<br>While he went murmuring on: ``'Tis very well<br>Thus to forget. And what a wonder too<br>It now is''--and there came a sudden light<br>Into his eyes--``that one should ever care<br>To recollect a single day of life.<br>I used to think and plan and plot and scheme<br>How I might build my life in such a way<br>That I should take fine memories to my grave.<br>And now what a small matter 'tis to know<br>How the years went, when death in half an hour<br>Is all that is left of them! No matter now,<br>But only to sleep sound in any bed<br>And have no dreams.'' His eyes grew dim again<br>As he ceased speaking. And the woman knew<br>That he was dying. ``He is gone,'' she said.<br>And then she started muttering half aloud<br>``They cannot pass without the sacraments,<br>These gentle--folks.'' And so she hurried out.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The dying man smiled. When they came again,<br>She whispered in his ear, and looking down<br>Saw him still smiling; so she lit in haste<br>A candle by the bed and knelt aside.<br>They put the holy oils upon his hands,<br>Which closed upon the fingers of the priest.<br>The priest bent over him and laid his ear<br>To the half--open mouth and presently,<br>Thinking he heard some words, gave absolution.<br>But, when they would have gone on with the rest,<br>They found that he was dead. They buried him<br>With some small pomp to comfort the old dame,<br>Who said her master was a gentleman<br>And must be followed with a mourning coach<br>And mutes and weepers. There was no one else.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His name is cut upon a stone. His dreams<br>Were written on Time's hem; and Time has fled<br>And taken him and them. The grass is green<br>Upon his grave. I cannot doubt he sleeps.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536533" data-title="Requiescit de Wilfrid Scawen Blunt" data-description="I cannot tell his story. He was one
To whom the riddle of our human life
Was strangely put, and who, because of that
And that he could not read it, died. But a short hour
Before he passed, the woman who stood by,
Weeping as once she had wept to se..."></div>
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