Classic Poem

If I am taken from this patchwork life
By some swift out-thrust of an unseen arm—
The death that strikes my comrades day and night—
I pray you make of it no cause of tears,
I beg you grieve not for me overmuch.
And for your comfort I would pen this thought:
The joy you had of me in childhood's days
When in your arms I played or cried or prayed
(Those soft warm arms! Can you or I forget?)
Will still remain with you when I am gone.
It is so real now, that memory;
Not death itself can rob you of your child.
The boy I was, the man I grew to be,
Despite the mother's tender hopes and fears,
How distant, how detached and cold they seem.
And so, sweet Mother, here I stand to meet
My fate, this night and any night; but still
Your child, imperishable whilst you breathe;
As in the cradle, so until the end.