Yet we trust that somehow good
will be the final goal of ill!
To pangs of nature, sins of will
defects of doubt, and taints of blood!

I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

Encompass'd with a thousand dangers Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand
terrors....

Do we cherish living life
or just being alive?