The Computation

For the first twenty years since yesterday                  I scarce believed thou couldst be gone away;            For forty more I fed on favors past,               And forty on hopes that thou wouldst they might last.                    Tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two,               A thousand,

I did neither think nor do,               Or not divide, all being one thought of you,               Or in a thousand more forgot that too.          Yet call not this long life, but think that I               Am, by being dead, immortal.

Can ghosts die?