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There’ssuch a lot of work to do, for such a troubled head!

I’m scribbling this against a book, with foolscap round, in bed.

It strikes me that I’ll scribble much in this way by and by,

And write my last lines so perchance the day before I die.

There’s lots of things to come and go, and I, in careless rhyme,

And drink and love (it wastes the most) have wasted lots of time.

There’s so much good work to be done it makes me sure that I

Will be the sorriest for my death, the day before I die.

But, lift me dear, for I am tired, and let me taste the wine—

And lay your cheek a little while on this lined cheek of mine.

I want to say I love you so—your patient love is why

I’ll have such little time, you know, the day before I die.