Poetry Archives

Because I’ve eighty years and odd,
       And darkling is my day,
I now prepare to meet my God,
       And for forgiveness pray.
Not for salvation is my plea,
       Nor Heaven hope,—just rest:
Begging: “Dear Father, pardon me,
       I did not do my best.

“I did not measure with the Just
       To serve my fellow men;
But unto levity and lust
       I loaned my precious pen.
I sorrow for the sacred touch,
       And though I toiled with zest,
Dear God, have mercy, in-as-much
       I did not do my best.

“I bless You for the gift you gave
       That brought me golden joy;
Yet here beside the gentle grave
       I grieve for its employ.
Have pity, Lord,—so well I know
       I failed you in the test,
And my last thought is one of woe:
       I did not do my best.”