A Prayer

by Sara Teasdale
When I am dying, let me know
That I loved the blowing snow
 Although it stung like whips;
That I loved all lovely things
And I tried to take their stings
 With gay unembittered lips;
That I loved with all my strength,
To my soul's full depth and length,
 Careless if my heart must break,
That I sang as children sing
Fitting tunes to everything,
 Loving life for its own sake.