Do but consider this small dust, here running in the glass, By atoms moved. Could you believe that this the body was Of one that loved? And in his mistress' flame playing like a fly, Turned to cinders by her eye? Yes, and in death as life unblest, To have't expressed, Even ashes of lovers find no rest. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOROTHY Q; A FAMILY PORTRAIT by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES PRAYER FOR A CITY CHILD by DOROTHY P. ALBAUGH IN MEMORY: MISS JEWETT by GRACE ALLERTON ANDREWS A REMEMBRANCE OF SOME ENGLISH POETS by RICHARD BARNFIELD HUMAN PLEASURE OR PAIN by MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS |