The Love Sonnets of Proteus, Gods and False Gods, LXXVI: The same continued

And who shall tell what ignominy death
Has yet in store for us ; what abject fears
Even for the best of us ; what fights for breath ;
What sobs, what supplications, what wild tears ;
What impotence of soul against despairs
Which blot out reason ? — The last trembling thought
Of each poor brain, as dissolution nears,
Is not of fair life lost, of Heaven bought
And glory won. 'Tis not the thought of grief ;
Of friends deserted ; loving hearts which bleed ;
Wives, sisters, children who around us weep.
But only a mad clutching for relief
From physical pain, importunate Nature's need :
The search as for a womb where we may creep
Back from the world, to hide, — perhaps to sleep.