For the first twenty years, since yesterday, I scarce believed thou couldst be gone away; For forty more, I fed on favours past, And forty on hopes -- that thou wouldst, they might, last. Tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two; A thousand, I did neither think, nor do, Or not divide, all being one thought of you; Or in a thousand more forgot that too. Yet call not this long life, but think that I Am, by being dead, immortal. Can ghosts die? |