Thou knowest that the riches of this field
Make no abiding, let the goblet’s fire
Consume the fleeting harvest Earth may yield!
Oh Cypress-tree! green home of Love’s sweet choir,
When I unto the dust I am have passed,
Forget thy former wantonness, and cast
Thy shadow o’er the dust of my desire.
Flow, bitter tears, and wash me clean! for they
Whose feet are set upon the road that lies
’Twixt Earth and Heaven: “Thou shalt be pure,” they say,