<abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name">T. A. H.</abbr> by Ambrose Bierce

Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer⁠— Did so-and-so, though, faith, it wasn’t all; Lived like a fool, or a philosopher, And had whatever’s needful to a fall. As rough inflections on a planet merge 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. 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 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 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, And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead.