A Wish

I do but ask a little time of peace

            Before the end of all. I crave no bliss;

            I crave no love, nor fame, but only this –

On summer days to bask beneath old trees,

Or half asleep to lie by gentle seas,

            Hearing the waves that whisper ere they kiss,

            Then break and babble; or, when twilight is,

And one by one the birds from singing cease,

Wander the patient, tranquil hills among

            And languish in an exquisite regret,

And hear a sad but not discordant song

            Possess the air; and when the sun is set,

Lie down with thankfulness to know, ere long,

            All things that ever were I shall forget.

Philip Bourke Marston

The Kiote, March 1901