| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 838. T. A. H. |
| | | By Ambrose Bierce |
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| YES, he was that, or that, as you prefer,— | |
| Did so and so, though, faith, it was n’t all; | |
| Lived like a fool, or a philosopher, | |
| And had whatever’s needful to a fall. | |
| As rough inflections on a planet merge | 5 |
| In the true bend of the gigantic sphere, | |
| Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge, | |
| So in the survey of his worth the small | |
| Asperities of spirit disappear, | |
| Lost in the grander curves of character. | 10 |
| He lately was hit hard; none knew but I | |
| The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke,— | |
| Not even herself. He uttered not a cry, | |
| But set his teeth and made a revelry; | |
| Drank like a devil,—staining sometimes red | 15 |
| The goblet ’s edge; diced with his conscience; spread, | |
| Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke | |
| His welcome in a tongue so long forgot | |
| That even his ancient guest remembered not | |
| What race had cursed him in it. Thus my friend, | 20 |
| Still conjugating with each failing sense | |
| The verb “to die” in every mood and tense, | |
| Pursued his awful humor to the end. | |
| When, like a stormy dawn, the crimson broke | |
| From his white lips, he smiled and mutely bled, | 25 |
| And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead. | |
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