Prospice by Robert Browning

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“Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,

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The mist in my face,

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote

I am nearing the place,

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The power of the night, the press of the storm,

The post of the foe;

Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,

Yet the strong man must go:

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For the journey is done and the summit attained,

And the barriers fall,

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,

The reward of it all.

 

I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,

The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore,

And bade me creep past.

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No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers

The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears

Of pain, darkness and cold.

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For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,

The black minute's at end,

And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,

Shall dwindle, shall blend,

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Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,

Then a light, then thy breast,

O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,

And with God be the rest!”

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Prospice by Robert Browning