The Child Dying by Edwin Muir

Unfriendly friendly universe,
I pack your stars into my purse,
And bid you, bid you so farewell.
That I can leave you, quite go out,
Go out, go out beyond all doubt,
My father says, is the miracle.

You are so great, and I so small:
I am nothing, you are all:
Being nothing, I can take this way.
Oh I need neither rise nor fall,
For when I do not move at all
I shall be out of all your day.

It's said some memory will remain
In the other place, grass in the rain,
Light on the land, sun on the sea,
A flitting grace, a phantom face,
But the world is out.
There is no place
Where it and its ghost can ever be.

Father, father, I dread this air
Blown from the far side of despair,
The cold cold corner. What house, what hold,
What hand is there? I look and see
Nothing-filled eternity
And the great round world grows weak and old.

Hold my hand, oh hold it fast --
I am changing! -- until at last
My hand in yours no more will change,
Though yours change on. You here, I there,
So hand in hand, twin-leafed despair --
I did not know death was so strange.

Don't want to be SICK!

I don't want to be sick. I feel, as the owner of my body, I have every right to decide that I won't get sick.
Why won't the germs listen? Honestly! Its not fair. I hate having those starting signs of sickness, because its usually too late to do anything about it. The sore and scratchy throat. Starting to feel, tired, all the time.
And wouldn't you know it? Just in time for the weekend. NO, I won't be sick.
I cant' miss the 80's retro party Mar is throwing. I bought special shirts just for it.
Its NOT FAIR.

Oh well, enough whining I guess.