Escape

Sing me to sleep when I go West;
   But sing you, soft and low,
No song from the olden masters' best,
   Or I shall not want to go:
Not Schubert, wondrous harmonist,
Not great Beethoven, Grieg nor Liszt,
Nor any rare old melodist;
   For I'd hate the passing so.

I'll hate to part with the good green trees
   And the birds and the soft, kind sky;
For I've abiding love for these,
   And I shall not want to die.
But, most of all, shall I doubly grieve
For the joys of earth when I have to leave
Those melodies to which I cleave
   When the lust for life runs high.

Sing me to sleep when I go west
  The latest thing you know
In jazz; and sing with brutal zest
   While the saxophones moan low
And the squawkers squawk and the banjoes strum
To the bang and the boom of the big bass drum;
Then I'll come out for Kingdom Come
   And gladly shall I go.