I’m dying as fast as I can.
Such was the defense of my father earlier this year when I suggested he give up his house and move into assisted living.
He related best to the poetry of Robert Burns. In the closing stanza of poem, Man was Made to Mourn, I glimpse through the glass, darkly, and see how this poet spoke to and for the poor man. And my father.
O Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy fear thy blow
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But, oh! a blest relief for those
That weary-laden mourn!
Filed under: Poetry |