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:
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.
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