Wednesday, May 7, 2008

The Hour Glass

Ben Johnson (1573-1637)

Consider the small dust, here 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,
Was turned to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life unblessed,
To have it expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.

1 comment:

dan said...

from Immortal Poems of the English Language (Oscar Williams)

on the subject of epitaphs

I like the idea of things being miniature but restless. Maybe the idea of "resting in peace" is overrated. The peace sounds good, but I'm not entirely sold on the resting.