The sandy glass hence bear—
Antique remembrancer;
My veins
Do spare its pains.
With secret sympathy
My thoughts repeat in me
Infirm
The turn o’ the worm
Beneath my appointed sod:
The grave is in my blood;
I shake
To winds that take
Its grasses by the top;
The rains thereon that drop
Perturb
With drip acerb
My subtly answering soul;
The feet across its knoll
Do jar
Me from afar.
As sap foretastes the spring;
As Earth ere blossoming
Thrills
With far daffodils,
And feels her breast turn sweet
With the unconceivèd wheat;
So doth
My flesh foreloathe
The abhorrèd spring of Dis,
With seething presciences
Affirm
The preparate worm.
I have no thought that I,
When at the last I die,
Shall reach
To gain your speech.
But you, should that be so,
May very well, I know,
May well
To me in hell