I have outlived my life, and linger on, Knowing myself the ghost of one that was. Come, kindly death, and let my flesh, being grass, Nourish some beast's sad life when I am gone. What joy is left in all I look upon? I cannot sin, it wearies me. Alas! I loathe the laggard moments as they pass; I tire of all but swift oblivion. Yet, if all power to taste the dear deceit Be not outworn and perished utterly, If it could be, then surely it were sweet: I go down on my knees and pray: O God, Send me some last illusion, ere I be A clod, perhaps at rest, within a clod. |