| Be near me when my light is low. | |
| When the blood creeps and the nerves prick | |
| And tongle, and the heart is sick, | |
| And all the wheels of beeing slow. | |
| Be near me when the sensous frame | |
| Is racked with pangs that conquer trust, | |
| And time a maniac, scattering dust, | |
| And life, a fury, slinging flame. | |
| Be near me when my faith is dry, | |
| And men the flies of latter spring, | |
| That lay their eggs, and sting and sing, | |
| And weave their petty cells and die. | |
| Be near me when I fade away, | |
| To point the term of human strife. | |
| And on the low dark verge of life | |
| The twilight of eternal day. | |
| (Alfred Lord Tennyson) |
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