Classic Poem

I want to die with the dying day,
on the high sea and with my face to the sky,
where the pangs of death may seem a dream
and the soul a mew on soaring wing.

At the last, to hear no other voice,
alone already with the sky and sea,
no other voice, no other sobbing knell,
than the mighty heaving of the deep.

To die when the melancholy light
withdraws its golden nets from the green waves,
and be as yonder slowly expiring sun,
a thing of exceeding brightness, perishing.

To die, and young; before the pleasant crown
is brought to nothing by perfidious time;
while life, although we know full well she is
a traitoress, still says: “I am thine.”