I must have been the last to see his pallid face, his red eyes, his torment as he clung to his life so helplessly. Sweat dripped from his clammy brow. He was nearly in fever. Did his hands shake as he reached for his glass? Water dribbled down his chin as he drank. So many sleepless nights had removed much of his dignity. Sleep and food and drink--such trifles did not matter now. He struggled for his life. I knew he would not win.

“I will ne’er consent,” he whispered, breaking the silence. I could tell his end was near. I had seen him rage and weep and shout. He refused to yield. He would fight; he would hold on. He said he would never concede, but few live past his age. He had fought with divinity, warred with the world, struggled with himself. Such is the fate of many. Why should he be different? His culture stifled him early, cultivating his fiery temperament, but in the end, he smothered himself. Like a meteor, he burnt bright for a moment before fizzling. The forces that acted against him were too much for his physical being. After all, a man is only a man. Limitations must be acknowledged. It would be better for him to pass on. He was only a reminder of what couldn’t be. And he was so tired. How many sleepless nights had it been? Too many. Far too many.

“I will ne’er consent,” he whispered again. But he was already gone; he just didn’t know it yet. The mountains would surely fade in his weakening vision. The high, cold, lonely places of the earth would still call, but his ears grew deaf. A single, wailing note would never again move him. Nevermore would he would never stand in the rain and enjoy it, knowing that dryness and warmth are only a few yards away. Soon poetry would only be words to him, words for sentimental occasions. Only for courtship and weddings and funerals. He would descend into the darkness.

“I will ne’er consent.” His breathing quickened. His pupils dilated. His pulse must have raced faster than that first marathon runner, who delivered his message and fell dead. Athens celebrated that messenger, but none would remember my subject. His was a message undelivered. His doom was to fall among the forgotten. Anonymity seemed like a small price to pay now. “I will ne’er consent.” Oh, but he was so close!

“I will ne’er consent,” he said once more. “Ne’er.” He closed his eyes. He sat in silence that contrasted noisily with his consciousness. How had it come to this? How had he fallen this far? “I will ne’er consent. Ne’er.”

"Ne'er" as a plea, not a fact. “Ne’er” as an objection to what must be. “Ne’er” as his final will and testament.

And though he had said he would never consent, with a sigh at last, he consented.

And I knew that I had witnessed the death of an idealist.

This started as poem that arose in my geometry class and expanded in swim practice. I intended to write it when I came home, but whatever gives me the ability to write poetry went missing. So obviously, this vignette didn't stay a poem. The play on "I will ne'er consent" was adapted from a poem by Lord Byron. I always knew I'd yank it out of context someday. Please leave your thoughts, I'm curious to know what you thought I was talking about. Unless you just skipped down to the last line. I do that sometimes. Shame on us.