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