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?
