Out of the Sighs by Dylan Thomas — Read

Out of the sighs a little comes, / But not of grief, for I have knocked down that / Before the agony; the spirit grows, / Forgets, and cries;

A little comes, is tasted and found good; / All could not disappoint; / There must, be praised, some certainty, / If not of loving well, then not, / And that is true after perpetual defeat.

After such fighting as the weakest know, / There's more than dying; / Lose the great pains or stuff the wound, / He'll ache too long / Through no regret of leaving woman waiting

For her soldier stained with spilt words / That spill such acrid blood.

Were that enough, enough to ease the pain, / Feeling regret when this is wasted / That made me happy in the sun,

And, sleeping, made me dream / How much was happy while it lasted, / Were vaguenesses enough and the sweet lies plenty, / The hollow words could bear all suffering / And cure me of ills.

Were that enough, bone, blood, and sinew, / The twisted brain, the fair-formed loin, / Groping for matter under the dog's plate, / Man should be cured of distemper.

For all there is to give I offer:

Crumbs, barn, and halter.